Booze Speaking
by Ahmerst
Summary: Unable to deal with a very drunken Alfred, Matthew dumps him off on Arthur. Only thing is, he doesn't warn Arthur what an affectionate little tiger Alfred is when he's liquored up. Chapter 5 deals with drunken dub-con. UK/US that order
1. Chapter 1

The trill of a telephone echoed throughout the room. Arthur's head snapped up, gaze flitting to the phone. He stared at it momentarily, willing it to answer itself, willing it to _leave him be_. Tonight was his night to enjoy. _Alone._

The air was charged with the tension of an oncoming thunderstorm, the howl of wind, low but persistent. Arthur had not a doubt it would carry in a fair amount of pounding rain. Perfect weather to turn in for a deep and cleansing sleep, _not_ perfect weather for answering late-night phone calls.

He stared silently at the phone and the cradle upon which it rested. One ring, two rings, three rings─_ Pick up you bloody useless answering machine._ A twinge of satisfaction curled about Arthur's shoulders as the ringing halted. _Good machine, good electronic jigamawhatsit─_

The phone sprang back to life, renewing its shrill tone as it called for attention. Arthur shoved himself violently away from his desk, momentarily whirling his arms for balance as the chair tottered in reaction to the show of force. He growled and steadied himself, rising to his feet before taking up an anxious trot towards the disturbance.

He pressed the 'On' button and settled the phone between his ear and neck, arms free to be crossed in irritation. "Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying it."

"Great, fine," the voice on the other end retorted, a slight slur outlining the words. "I'll be sure not to drop off those thin mint cookies courtesy of Girl Scouts."

"I- Wait, what? Who is this?" Arthur scoffed.

"Story of my life," the voice muttered. "It's me, Matthew, the one with the beavers, the maple syrup, the Winter Olympics."

"Oh, well," Arthur was wary. It was out of character for Matthew to speak in such a sarcastic matter. "Are you sure this isn't Alfred?"

An exasperated sigh, "If I didn't need your help right now, I'd hang up on you."

_Help_. Arthur, he _liked_ to help; if only to lord it over other nation's when he needed a favor in the future. "And what, pray tell, kind of help are you in need of?"

"Alfred help."

"Ah," Arthur put on his best customer service hot line voice, sickeningly false and high, "I'm sorry sir, we don't handle Alfred problems in our department. If you'd like me to transfer you to─"

"_No_," Matthew cut in, "no transfers. This is the correct department, I've called here before and gotten help."

"Fine." Arthur bowed to his own curiosity over the situation. "What is it this time?"

"I've got to catch a flight, pronto. Usual red tape stuff I've got to deal with, you know the drill."

"And you can't simply throw Alfred in the overhead?"

"Believe me, I would if it could."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean?" Arthur bristled.

"Nothing, nothing. It's- uh, booze. Booze talking. Booze is really talkative."

_You're a bit of a rude drunk_, Arthur thought to himself as he strained to hear past Matthew's voice, listening for the white noise of clinking glass and mirthful chatter. He heard the faint rumble of chairs, possibly being stacked, but no indication otherwise to suggest Matthew might be at a pub. "Where are you?"

The rustling of a palm being placed over the mouthpiece momentarily met Arthur's ears, though he could hear Matthew speaking to what he presumed to be a passerby. The mouthpiece quickly shed its muffled quality. "The Rabbit's Foot. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes." Arthur knew all too well, for he had spent many a night there himself in an attempt to drown out his grievances.

"I hope you're close, because they're closing up shop as we speak."

"It's about ten minutes or so from me, nothing too far."

"Great, see you in ten minutes, then!" Matthew's voice, while still touched with liquor, sounded not nearly as harsh as it had in the beginning of their conversation.

"Oi, splash out on a taxi and send him here." Arthur was not charitable enough to actually fetch Alfred.

"... Can't hear you, reception is pretty poor in here," Matthew blurted in a single breath before the distinct silence of an empty phone line took the place of his voice.

Arthur unfolded his arms, sighing as placed the phone back in its cradle. He pulled on a fitted dark overcoat as he made for the door. Momentarily he paused in the act of toeing on his loafers, realising he had not the faintest idea of why Alfred needed to be babysat to begin with, or for how long.

He eventually shrugged himself back into motion, snatching the keys to his vehicle from a ceramic bowl that rested by the door. It wasn't as if he could call Matthew back and ask what the conditions were, he had already committed. Or at least, they were already expecting him. And Arthur was a man of his word, his own honor too dear to become besmirched by something as silly as refusing to make sure Alfred didn't unknowingly become a drug mule or international jewel thief for a few hours.

A pleased smile glanced across Arthur's lips as he opened the door, the cool rush of the night kissing his skin. He could handle this.

Severe lack of Alfred in this chapter! How horrible. Alfred is in every single chapter after this, though. This chapter is also shorter than the rest, being roughly 1,000 words while the other chapters all range from 4,000 to 6,7000. Overall this story, if I recall correctly, is about 20,000 words long.

It's available in its entirety on my livejournal, but like my other fics I am slowly moving it over here. As a warning, this fic really runs an emotional roller coaster, but hey, I like that in a fic! If I get around to it, I'll post the next chapter tonight. If not, then tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur sped anxiously down roads that dipped and curved without end. When he had told Matthew the pub was only ten minutes from his house, he had been blurring the time a bit. The time it took to travel the distance was really closer to fifteen minutes. Maybe seventeen. Twenty at tops.

He floored the car through another yellow light, pressing his luck in a bid to arrive more quickly. His heart thudded in his chest, both out of excitement and fear. Alfred was going to stay with him. In the same home, without any government officials or paperwork to be read over, no extra ties or ends to sort out. A true-blue _visit_.

The two of them no longer seemed to have a relationship beyond cordial acquaintances. The longest amount of time being spent together would be hunched over rectangular desks in stuffy rooms, going through page after page of words that hardly meant anything to those that read them.

Meetings where they sat together became exercises in ignoring the other's existence as much as was possible, rather than finding solutions to world problems and safeguarding future generations. On rare occasions their hands might brush against each other as notes were passed to and fro, but both would recoil instantly with mumbled half-apologies and averted gazes.

The entire situation frustrated Arthur, and his emotions transferred into a lead weight upon his foot, speeding rather recklessly through empty streets peppered with glowing lights. If he was going to lug Alfred home, Arthur was going to talk straight to that boy. Give him a piece of his mind, and order, if he had to, Alfred to be more outgoing and friendly towards him. After all, Alfred never looked to have a problem chumming it up with the other nations.

Soft touches of raindrops began to lick against the car's windshield, and Arthur flicked the wipers on without a thought. He tensed as his mind rewound to the instant he was leaving his home. He'd gotten his coat, gotten his keys, locked the door and double checked─ but hadn't taken an umbrella with him. _The last thing I want is that buffoon coming into my house smelling like a wet dog._

Arthur slowed as he began to make his way about the more complicated roads of the town. He wove through them on autopilot, his thoughts as dark as the sky, his hackles raised in unhappy anticipation. Maybe it wasn't too late to bow out of picking up Alfred. Lord only knows how many timeless pieces of art he could ruin in one night, how he could whirl through a house and create thousands of pounds worth of damage.

_He doesn't mean to,_ Arthur scolded himself. Or at least, Arthur didn't think Alfred meant to be a living bulldozer. A twinge of pity touched upon Arthur's heart. Alfred reminded him of a dog. A big, goofy dog that thought everyone and their Aunt Bernice loved it, but in truth they wanted nothing to do with the pup.

It jumped up on people, knocking them down, always wiggled its way into their business, and had a penchant when it came to begging for food with its big, lovely blue eyes. Those mournful expressions that would plead with you, plucking at your heartstrings and wearing down your defenses until you finally gave in ─

A car horn blared from behind Arthur, snapping him out of his reverie. He shook his head and sped up a bit. Alfred was not a dog. He knew better, and he certainly didn't give mournful expressions that could wear Arthur down. Arthur knew Alfred too well to be taken in my trick as simple as doe eyes.

Having assured himself several times over that he could handle whatever might be thrown at him along with Alfred, Arthur turned into the lane that led directly to The Rabbit's Foot. He cruised by hesitantly at first, his car paced on par with a common garden snail. He could make out a backlit figure against the lighted windows of the pub. Rather willowy and elegant.

Certainly not Alfred.

The figure ducked inside the building in the blink of an eye, appearing again just as quickly. It jogged towards Arthur's now idle car with the movements of one trained for many years in dance. Golden hair caught the light of the street lamp, shadows were cast upon well maintained features. A slight wisp of facial hair was made visible.

_Beardy_! Arthur shouted inwardly, his foot pumping the pedal as Francis' fingers made a grab for the door handle. Francis yelped in surprise, momentarily staring on as Arthur halted a few feet ahead of him. Arthur watched Francis from his rear view window, glowering at the Frenchman.

He gave a wicked cackle as Francis composed himself, striding more slowly this time towards his door. Again Arthur pumped the pedal when Francis was within reach of the door's handle. Their song and dance continued to the end of the street, Arthur too wrapped up in watching Francis fail time and time again to recall his original reason for being in the area.

The laughter on his lips died in a feeble cry as Francis lunged at his car, key held in hand as if it were a foil. Whining screams of key against car body filled Arthur's ears. He swerved into an empty parking space, ripping his own keys from the ignition and burst forth from the car, wanting only to draw blood from the bastard who had sullied his vehicle.

Francis' laugh rang through the street as he fled, slinking through shadow and light with the grace and speed of a feline. Arthur tore after him, coat billowing in the wind of his pursuit. He barreled through the entrance of the pub before the rain had even the time to touch him, muscles tight with rage.

"Hello, love," a warm voice called out to him.

Arthur looked to the source, eyes brightening in momentarily recognition of the owner, a jovial woman with a rounded and motherly body. Her cheeks flushed from working the night through, a calloused hand running over her forehead, a rag in the other. The familiar barmaid.

"Hello, Margaret," Arthur responded, forcing the homicidal tides to ebb from his voice.

"Are you here for the young man?" she questioned, her elbow motioning to the corner of the room.

"Yes, yes that's exactly why I'm here." England smiled politely before making his way to the corner-most table.

France sat half perched upon the table, looking relaxed and at home with himself as he spoke hushed words that Arthur could not quite hear. Matthew was staring at the man as if he happened to be in the company of a great philosopher, his eyes glassy but attentive as he hung on to every word Francis whispered to him. The young man's sneakers stubbed at the wooden planks of the floor with a nervous edge, his body clearly wanting to be at the airport already, despite him mind wishing to stay exactly where it was.

No Alfred.

Arthur nonchalantly bumped his hip against the table with enough force to unsettle Francis, smirking openly as the other made an assortment of odd noises in an attempt to keep himself from falling. "Where is he?"

Matthew's violet gaze shifted to Arthur, lips curving into an apologetic smile. "In the restroom, he'll be out soon enough."

"Good." Arthur elbowed Francis off the table again. "Stay off the table, frog."

Francis plastered a serene expression on his face, unwilling to give Arthur the satisfaction of riling him up. "What's that, _Angleterre_? You want me to key your car further, possibly write out a few words?"

"Be my guest, the new paint job is coming out of your pocket." Arthur paused. "Why were you even trying to get in my car, anyway? I'm not your chauffeur."

"I was _trying_," Francis huffed, "To tell you that it was going to be a few more minutes."

"And so you keyed my car?"

"You're twisting the events."

Matthew stood, his hands rising and falling in waves of placating motion, "Now, now, let's all get along. Once I see that Alfred is safely off we can go straight to the airport, Francis."

The apprehension Arthur had been fending off began to crow loudly in his mind. "_Safely off_? You make it sound like I'm going to lock Alfred in the boot."

"I wouldn't trust him, _Mathieu_, I bet─"

"There's Alfred now," Matthew cut in curtly, gesturing to an opening door.

Arthur turned to face the door, keeping his expression apathetic at best as he watched Alfred emerge. The drunken man tottered slightly on his feet as he shut to door behind him, letting out a low but distinctive 'Whoo!' his ability to close the door without falling a clear highlight of his evening.

"Did Frogger put something in Alfred's drink?" Arthur asked in a hasty whisper.

"_Non_," Francis answered.

"Alfred may have had a bit too much to drink tonight." Matthew sighed.

Arthur made a noise to indicate he understood, but kept his eyes on Alfred. He watched as the American came towards the table, giving no indication that he had come to notice Arthur. It looked like the man was attempting to pull off a confident swagger as he approached, but managing only to perform a stooping and drunken lope.

"Hello." Arthur said as Alfred neared them.

Alfred turned surprised eyes on Arthur, a deer in the headlights. "_You_!"

"Er, yes. Me." Arthur took an involuntary step back, wary of Alfred's reaction.

Alfred looked around, as though expecting to see more new arrivals. "Are we having a world meeting at the bar?"

"Not quite, Alfred." Matthew stood to escort his brother the rest of the distance to the table. "Francis and I need to go, and Arthur graciously offered to escort you home, so you'll be leaving with him."

_Graciously offered, my arse,_ Arthur thought.

"Does this mean you're leaving me?" Alfred questioned, his grip finding its way about Matthew's arm. "And since when do I need a babysitter?"

"Arthur isn't a babysitter, Alfred. He's your friend." Matthew's words carefully evaded the first question.

"_Pfft_. Try telling him that." Alfred leaned his weight against Matthew.

"I'm right here, idiot boy," Arthur snapped.

"See? _Look at that,_" Alfred hissed, "calling me words like 'idiot' and 'boy'."

Francis glanced at the clock hanging from the patterned wall. "_Mathieu_, if we wish to make our flight, we will have to leave as quickly as possible."

Matthew began to guide Alfred to the door, glancing over his shoulder at Arthur and Francis. "Come on then, let's get this show on the road."

Arthur followed silently behind the two young men, wincing as the stench of heavy liquor slapped him in the face. He watched through watering eyes as Alfred's form was half dragged by his brother, bobbing slightly back and forth, hiccuping over quiet words, almost pleas, to Matthew. Arthur's eyes ran along the seams of Alfred's faded and tattered jeans, fraying at the edges, though they snugly wrapped themselves around the flesh of his thighs as they moved upwards, until the hanging hem of his bomber jacket obscured any more of the man from view.

"Like what you see?" Francis murmured, a smile trailing on his words.

"What are you talking about?" Arthur barked back, an uncomfortable heat forming in his chest.

"Nothing, nothing at all." Francis gave a flippant wave and pocketed his hands, ducking out ahead of Arthur and into the blackness of the street.

Arthur crept out of the establishment last, looking over his shoulder and nodding good-naturedly at the barkeep before shutting the door behind him. His vision momentarily losing its focus in the change from well lit pub to the barely visible street. Immediately the soft kiss of a tempered drizzle brushed against his skin, a slick and shining black road beginning to form in front of him.

Arthur took a deep breath, shuddering at the iciness of the air as it entered his chest, pausing to appreciate the outward puffs of white mist as he exhaled. He curled his toes within his shoes, rocking slightly before setting out down the street to rejoin the others.

The two brothers were already in position beside Arthur's beat-up clunker as he drew closer. Alfred appeared to have grown bored in the short amount of time it had taken for Arthur to catch up, his arms now looped about his brother's shoulders, urging him to start up a waltz.

Matthew indulged Alfred momentarily, if only to get Arthur in his sight. He gave the older man a look that _breathed_ exasperation, and Arthur gave a nod of acknowledgment in return. Arthur hurried his step, rounding the side of the car, hands aflutter as he fished his keys from his pocket.

At first attempt, they glanced away from the lock. Arthur mumbled a curse under his breath, uncomfortably aware of how chilled the air felt against the warmth of his cheeks, the hotness of his ears. _Stupid Francis_, Arthur's key finally connected with the lock, _Making something out of nothing. I was only thinking about how much stitching and ironing that boy's pants needed,_ he assured himself, jerking on the handle of the passenger's side door before going back to the driver's side.

Arthur slid into his seat, closing the door before either of the young men could say anything to him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, wide and unblinking. What was he supposed to do with Alfred? Play board games until he sobered up, make sure he didn't go on a drunken archaeologist dig in the back garden? Arthur hadn't thought this far ahead.

Matthew slung Alfred into the passenger seat, earning a loud bay of laughter from the other. He pulled Alfred's seat belt and buckled it, checking to make sure it would hold up with a tug of his hand. Alfred made no attempt to help the other, content to laugh at the efforts of his brother.

"Now, Alfred." Matthew half knelt, his hands gently grabbing the cloth of Alfred's shirt, bringing the American's attention back into focus. "Promise me you'll keep your hands to yourself tonight." He gave the slightest of jerks on Alfred when the man looked away to consider the request. "_Promise_."

"Why are you making him promise?" Arthur asked, watching the two brothers from the hazed edge of his peripheral vision. "He better not be a violent drunk."

Matthew bit back his laughter before it left his mouth, but Arthur could hear it reverberating in his throat. "He's not a violent drunk. I don't think I'd be alive if he were."

"Are you sure?" Arthur was unconvinced.

"Look, pretend I never even said anything, okay?"

"Okay!" Alfred piped up.

"I didn't mean you," Matthew chided.

Alfred lay his hands over Matthew's, giving them a light and patronizing pat. "You run along with Francis now, me and Arthur are going to get along _swimmingly,_" he slurred, smiling the content and relaxed smile that only the drunk can.

"Alright, but behave yourself." Matthew stood, his hands sliding from Alfred's grasp.

"Hey, don't leave me hanging, bro." He frowned.

"What?"

"You're going to leave me without so much as a hug?" Alfred whined, low and distressed.

"Oh, right." Matthew knelt again, holding his arms open for an embrace.

Alfred quickly latched his arms around his brother, making a throaty purr as he nuzzled into the fabric of the other's shirt. Arthur's jaw clenched in his effort not to turn his head and witness the act. Sickening shame sluiced over his chest, the feeling of being a voyeur combined with the stirrings of all around uneasiness.

It was fine if Alfred wanted to hug his brother, but Arthur would have preferred it if he had done so in private. Public acts of adoration always knocked his mind off kilter, distracted him from more important situations. Especially at the moment, as the highly affectionate squeals the boy was emitting were becoming downright worrisome.

"Okay, hug time is over." Matthew again pulled away, Alfred's arms slackening as he sat back in his seat. "I'll call you in the morning, go straight to bed when you get home."

"Okay, Mom." Alfred snorted as Matthew shut the door. He tapped on the glass a few times, a tuneless tattoo that could not reach Matthew's ears as he walked away from the car.

Arthur sat, his own fingers tempted to join in the sound. In Arthur's stead, the rain picked up to weld together with Alfred's tapping, minutes passing as the movements of Alfred's right hand grew bored with fatigue. His hand slumped to his side, head lazily turning to watch Arthur.

"Which bar we goin' to next, hot shot?" The odor of alcohol curled from Alfred's lips.

Arthur wrung the window's hand crank, cracking the window open to relieve the stifling stench. "Don't call me that, and we're heading home, not to another pub." He scratched at the warmth creeping up his neck.

"Home?" Alfred snirked, his body seeming to shift closer to Arthur's. "You can't drive across the pond, silly billy."

"_My _home, Alfred."


	3. Chapter 3

"I never agreed to go to your house." Alfred frowned, "If you take me there, you're taking me against my will. _Villain_."

"And what are you going to about it?" Arthur merged back in to the street, beginning the journey home.

"Leave." Alfred teasingly plucked at the handle several times, gauging Arthur's reaction.

Arthur blinked oddly as a stray drop of rain snuck in between the cracked window and struck him in the face. "I'm afraid you'll find your door doesn't open from the inside."

Alfred tested his newly acquired information by giving a severe tug on the handle, once, twice, three times. "You planned this, didn't you?"

"Of course not. Peter likes to sit in the front, but I don't trust him not to open the door and hurl himself into traffic because he wants to go to a toy shop or something inane like that." Arthur shook his head, grumbling, "As if I'd want to keep you around."

A stark silence swallowed the interior of the vehicle the instant the words had fallen from Arthur's lips, and he knew without doubt he had spoken his thoughts too loudly. He ignored it at first, pretending there was not another soul in the car. That it was only him, and the swirling tension of the air was a result of the electrically charged air. His eyes refused to play into the act.

They flicked at an even and quick tempo, from the road to Alfred, then back again. Arthur's eyes avoided grazing over Alfred's face, unwilling to confront any sadness or hurt they might hold. They instead traced over his chest, the rise and fall as the man's breath, slightly hitched at times, the breathing of someone in a desperate struggle to hold back tears.

Arthur's eyes moved on. Sliding over Alfred's stomach, glancing across the button and down the metallic zipper of his jeans, content to settle on Alfred's thighs. Arthur frowned as he took in the curve of the soft flesh, marred holes made upon the jeans distracted him from his visual conquest. A particularly large tear sat upon the thigh closest to Arthur, a twinge of need surfaced, a _need_ to touch the lack of fabric.

He knew the hole would not evaporate if his fingers were to glance over it, but a biting voice in the back of his head urged him on, begging for the tactile sensation. If only he could hook a single finger into that hole, give a simple tug to reaffirm its existence. Arthur's teeth ground together, the desire growing thick within his head, becoming swollen and demanding.

Arthur flicked through different excuses he could give if Alfred were to question his touch, which surely the young man would. He could not design a single excuse that could stand up to questioning before crumbling into a mess of lies, his hidden intention laid naked and exposed in an instant.

Strangled breath wrenched Arthur's attention back into the present. Alfred was still struggling to suppress his emotional distress, managing only to feed it in the silence. Arthur's hand twitched with a patronizing urge to quell Alfred's pain with a well placed touch, a mix of kind words and gentle whispers.

His hand moved of its own accord, Arthur having only the strength to direct it towards the other man's shoulders, instead of a more sensitive area. His fingers crept quickly along, spider like in their scurrying movements, covering the width of Alfred's shoulders before coming to languidly rest near Alfred's collar. Close enough to surreptitiously flick his fingers against the other's disheveled blond locks without drawing much attention.

"I didn't mean what I said." Arthur mumbled belatedly.

"Yes, you did." Alfred looked out into the night, his hands clenched in his lap.

"That's not true, I'm simply-" Arthur swallowed any semblance of pride he owned. "Being a grumpy man."

"Like always?" Alfred glanced back, his words hopeful but reserved, wanting the tension to pass.

"Like always." Arthur forced a rough laugh at the end of his words, but the unease between them refused to fade.

"Grumpy old man or not, you don't like me. I try everything I can to be your buddy," Alfred bemoaned, his chest puffing like an upset child's. "I mean, at the Country Club last week I even left you a doughnut." He deflated, chin dropping to his chest.

"Country club?" Arthur could not recall ever golfing with Alfred, knowing the other would use the gold karts to play go-kart.

"When we all get together at our little meetings. Because we're all countries, and it's like, a club." Alfred's eyes flashed to Arthur's face, seeking reassurance that his self-coined term was not ridiculous.

"I see." Breathed Arthur, "Certainly quite an, erm, artistic name." He tenderly tickled his fingers along the smooth surface of Alfred's neck, noting the warmth of his skin, the slight touch of sweat.

Alfred gave no signal that he had noticed Arthur's touch, his head lolling only slightly. "Can I turn on the radio?"

"Be my guest," Arthur welcomed, giving the back of Alfred's neck a motivating rub.

Alfred punched the radio on with a drunken fumble, his other hand readjusting his spectacles as he studied the radio frequency. He began to scan the stations without a word, pausing only long enough at every station to obtain the general gist of what genre was playing. Smooth jazz he passed, metal he passed, and with a somber grimace from Arthur, classical music he passed.

He went through this movement several times, scanning up and down the range of frequencies available. When static would make itself apparent, Alfred would lean towards the radio, his back arching and his eyes scrutinizing the air, trying desperately to see what sound lay beneath the buzz of noise.

Arthur's fingers clutched at the air every time he felt Alfred lean away, eager to brush against the man's hair and skin, to make subtle yet comforting contact. Alfred's peculiar musical decisions were beginning to strain his nerves, he wanted the boy to just pick something already, throw caution to the wind and listen to whatever came next so he could return himself to Arthur's touch.

"Your radio is broken," Alfred announced, throwing himself back into his seat with a heave.

Arthur's nerves settled as he felt the tickle of Alfred's silken hair against his forearm. "What makes you say that?"

"No Spanish folk music. Not a _lick,_" Alfred moaned dramatically.

"Beg pardon?" Arthur wondered if he had misheard, or at least missed a segment vital to the conversation.

"You heard me, no Spanish folk music. No accordions, no happy singing voices, no catchy castanets."

"And how do you draw the conclusion that my radio is broken because it hasn't any Spanish folk music to play for you?"

Alfred shot a serious look at Arthur, his lips taught and thin, his glazed eyes slightly wild. "There is always Spanish folk music."

"Why do you need such music so badly to begin with?"

Alfred's eyes drained of their rowdy touch, and Arthur was sure he felt the other leaning into his arm, as opposed to merely tolerating it. "I feel kind of homesick," he hastily muttered, his words jumbling in their hurry to be spoken.

"That doesn't explain the music." Arthur thumbed the collar of Alfred's jacked, the grooves of the fabric settling into his memory.

"Like I said, Spanish folk is always on the radio back home. I swear it's on every other station even. At first I wasn't so big on it, but it's grown on me. The musicians and singers always sound so lively, like they're having a grand ol' time with their simple instruments."

Unable to completely grasp why folk music would cause Alfred to feel better, Arthur diverted the course of their conversation. "How long have you been here? In England, I mean." Their last meeting had been only three days ago, and surely a well-traveled man like Alfred would not be pining for his homeland in such a short period of time.

"Something like two weeks," Alfred responded.

The arm that had been resting on Alfred's shoulder snapped back to the wheel, colliding inadvertently with the back of Alfred's skull, "_Two_ weeks?" Arthur questioned, more than a bit incredulous.

"_Ow_, yes." Alfred readjusted his glasses with slightly jittering fingers, the frame having come to balance precariously upon his nose after the blow to his head. "I was vacationing with Mattie."

"And this entire time, you haven't made a single attempt to contact me?"

"No, why would I?"

Arthur's chest was struck with ice, a sweeping and bitter chill coming to rest on his thoughts. His hands gripped the steering wheel more tightly, it creaked obligingly under his strength. "Oh, I don't know," Arthur spat, "Maybe to _spend time with me_."

"Believe me, I thought about it," Alfred began, but his lips pursed as he looked back on his words. "I don't mean I obsessed over it. But I considered it. Maybe. Not for a long time. Maybe like, for a minute." Alfred took to backpedaling.

"And of all the things on God's green Earth, what stopped you?" Arthur began to give the wheel a deep tissue massage, ignoring its mounting whines of protest.

"You'd be all like, '_You are a git-faced wanker who gives hand-relief to corporate mascots_' and then I'd call you a slang word that sounds bad, but might not be bad." He stroked his chin thoughtfully, "Like a toff. I don't know what one is, but I'd call you one anyway."

Arthur loosened his grip on the wheel, his shoulders shedding a hint of their anxiety. "I suppose that sounds more or less like our conversations."

"We're doing pretty good so far, I think." Alfred hugged himself. "We haven't gotten to the hand-relief bit part of our conversation yet."

"Yes, we've certainly proved ourselves to be more civil than is usual for us, tonight."

The two men again fell silent, their company doing little to soothe each other. Wind whipped loudly through the window, carrying small torrents of water into the car, but Arthur was unwilling to roll up the window. His close proximity to Alfred constantly reminded him of the other's mental and physical state, one that involved extravagant amounts of alcohol.

Alfred began to hum, reserved if not lackluster. His hands moved fleetingly up and down the restraint that stretched across his chest, strumming and caressing. He shifted his weight in his seat, restless and seemingly full of excess energy despite the late hour. Soon Alfred's coat was off, pooling at his waist while his face was pressed against the plexiglass pane of the window, blinking every time a drop of rain hurled itself against the window.

Arthur was content to drive in silence, knowing that it lessened the chances of an argument breaking out if neither were speaking. He pulled into the drive of his home, slightly impressed that Alfred could manage to hold himself together without speaking for more than twenty seconds.

"This your pad?" Alfred straightened up as Arthur parked. "The little joint way off there?" He gestured to Arthur's cottage, several hundred yards away.

"Home, sweet home." Arthur smiled, he didn't mind if it was a cozy, if not somewhat cramped living space. "There's nowhere but tall grass and wildflowers leading up to the door, so we're going to have to make a bit of a run for it. You can put your jacket over your head."

"I think I'll pass." Alfred unbuckled himself.

"That wasn't a request, lad."

Alfred wavered in his seat, weighing his options. "I bet the rain feels nice," he mused.

"I'm sure it does, but I won't have any wet beasts crossing my hearth."

"Yeah, not when you can summon 'em up in your basement." Alfred quipped.

"How long have you been waiting to tell that joke, a few decades?"

"Something around there," Alfred divulged.

Arthur shrugged his own coat off, pro-actively pulling it over his head to shield himself from the rain. "Either you put your jacket over your head, or you sleep in the car." His tone left no weak-point for cajoling.

"But your coat is _better_ than mine. Not to mention mine is leather, and it's so old it really does smell pretty funky if it gets damp."

"Then what shall I do? Hand over my coat and simply soak in the rain?"

"I never said that," Alfred balked awkwardly. "We could, maybe, share it or something."

"Do you even know how to share?" Arthur scoffed.

"With you, I do!" Alfred whined, childlike in his determination.

"Name one instance."

"The doughnut I mentioned before."

Arthur's mind recovered their earlier conversation, the fleeting mention of the fried sweet dough. He wracked his mind for the memory of finding it. Faintly, he recalled seeing a doughnut in the break room during the last 'Country Club', but he hadn't eaten it. Something had been distinctly wrong with it, something vital─

"Wait. I remember this doughnut you're going on about."

"You do?"

"It had the _icing_ eaten off of it."

Alfred went silent, no doubt projecting the memory onto his own mind, watching the frames slip by. "Right. Yeah, that was me." His fingers knit together, his shoulders hunched with embarrassment.

Arthur studied Alfred. Studied his saddened posture, the red blush of both booze and shame painted upon his cheeks, the nervous twitching of his fingers. His irritation melted into a thick and tallowy mass too unmotivated to go on. "It's the thought that counts, I suppose."

Arthur rolled his window up before exiting the car, quickly stepping to the passenger side and pulling the handle. Alfred blinked up at him momentarily, eyes clouded and confused, puzzled by Arthur's rapid change of heart. An unsure smile curved across his lips as he also stepped out of the car and under the protection of Arthur's upraised arm.

Rain assaulted the two men as they struggled towards the front door, making their way at a frustratingly slow pace. Alfred repeatedly knocked into Arthur's side as he drunkenly teetered in one direction before swinging in another, each time his amused laugh hurried away by the whip of the wind.

Arthur clenched his teeth in surprise as Alfred's shoulder collided with him, employing a particular bit of force. He winced and attempted to will the pain away, stopping in his tracks to recover for a moment. Alfred stilled with him, leaning most of his weight into Arthur as he waited.

"What are you doing, you lug of a man?" Arthur barked against the wind.

"I think-" Alfred shouted back, strands of hair tangled hair lashing his face as his form lurched to the side, "-I think I'm gonna fall. Yes. That is definitely going to happen."

"You are not going to fall. We've made it far enough with you on your feet, you can manage for another hundred yards or so."

Arthur smothered a mix of astonishment and fondness as Alfred's arms began to wind around his waist for support, shackling their bodies together. His own body refused to move as Alfred molded to it, mumbling to himself as he went. He took a step forward to urge Arthur on, who started up without a word of protest.

The physical closeness warmed Arthur, pushing him to carry on into the pounding rain that seemed only to gain in its strength. He pulled Alfred along with him, the young man almost tripping them both when he tried to stride ahead. Arthur found himself distracted by every step the other man took, his bear-like hold on Arthur, how his head had come to rest on Arthur's shoulder, bumping and swaying with every step.

Despite being bogged down with the task of half dragging Alfred, a smile spilled across Arthur's lips as they reached the door, their journey having come to an end. He hesitated at the door, removing their coat cover and dipping a hand into his pocket to find his keys. Alfred's grasp stayed strong, his breathing labored and hot as it traveled along Arthur's jawline, unsettling the man.

"L-let go of me, you o-oaf," Arthur stammered, every breath that scattered across his neck detracting from his focus to get the door ajar.

Alfred slackened his grip, but refrained from completely releasing Arthur. Slick strands of hair plastered themselves along Arthur's skin as Alfred lowered his head to rest in the crook where shoulder and neck met, his breathing still deeply tenuous.

Arthur unlocked the door with ingrained movements, attempting to take Alfred with him while shouldering it open. He made to shut the door with a snap of his hip, as he always did when his arms were full, but the sucking of the wind slammed it for him.

The echoing noise stirred Alfred from his silence, and the man eased himself away from Arthur, yawning and stretching as he toed off his shoes. A scowl tweaked at Arthur's features as Alfred had pulled away, aware of how oddly comfortable it had been to feel the other so close to his body.

"Your hair is soaking," Arthur remarked with a certain casualness, not wanting to rip into the boy right off the bat.

Alfred gave his head a few pats before drawing his hand away and giving his palm a scrutinizing look. "Indeed it is," he remarked, a slightly bemused look drifting across his face.

Arthur touched his own hair, and felt a hint of smugness at the fact it was bone-dry, if not a little straw like. He removed his own shoes as Alfred peeled off waterlogged socks which he promptly inserted into his sneakers. "Don't do that." Arthur groaned. "Ring out your socks and hang them up, then stuff some wadded up newspaper into your shoes."

Alfred gave him a look that said, _Truly, you ask too much of me_.

"Fine. Leave them there. I hope they get moldy." Arthur's gaze slipped over Alfred's clothes, noticing wet splotches. _Is this boy some kind of water magnet?_ he silently asked himself. "Go change into some dry pajamas."

"Don't got any."

Arthur stared at him, unamused. "What do you mean, '_don't got any_'?"

"I mean, I don't have any spare clothes, only what I have on my back." Alfred frowned, his eyes holding a mix of emotions Arthur could not quite pinpoint.

Arthur closed his eyes and gave them a firm rub with the flats of his hands. "I can't deal with this," he wheezed.

He repressed a flinch as he felt Alfred's hands wrap around his wrists and begin to pull them away from his eyes, grip gentle, but with a certain firmness that told Arthur not to resist.

"Are you mad at me?" Alfred asked, his voice quiet in fear of the answer.

"No," Arthur assured him, unable to lash out at Alfred for the time being. "I'm not cross with anyone, only frustrated."

"With me?"

"Only a bit." He weaseled his wrists from Alfred's grip to give the other a hesitant pat on the shoulder. "Why don't we get you some clothes?"

Alfred's expression relaxed as he nodded in agreement. Arthur turned with a smile and made his way down the main corridor until he found himself in a spare room that had, over the years, gone in to a metamorphosis that left it as a cluttered storage area.

He rummaged through box after box, his hands sifting through a variety of objects, from thimbles to non-functioning kitchen appliances. A splash of red fabric caught his eye, and without a thought he began to tug upon the hem of the clothing. Soon, a long, plain red shirt emerged from the box.

"I think that'll fit," Alfred said, surprising Arthur with how close he was.

Arthur whirled around and shoved the shirt towards Alfred, keeping the other at arm's length. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

Alfred momentarily refused to take the shirt from Arthur, instead opting to strip off the top he was presently wearing.

"S-stop that, I don't need you changing in front of me." Arthur ran the tip of his tongue over paling lips.

Alfred ignored Arthur's protests, struggling to pull his shirt over his head. Soon his arms had become tangled, locked in an upright position. He flailed about like a headless monster in his endeavor to change his top. Arthur reached out and steadied Alfred, his eyes rolling as he helped the other escape from the self imposed prison.

"Really now, you could at least wait until I'm in another room to change." Arthur shook his head, his eyes avoiding Alfred's bare torso as he continued to hold out the red top, but not quickly enough to register the smoothness of the other's stomach, how muscle rippled ever so slightly under his fair skin as he struggled.

"Pretend we're in a locker room." Alfred bent at the waist, his arms ahead of him in a manner reminiscent of Superman. "It's not so bad that way."

"_What_ are you doing?" Arthur gaped at the ridiculous way Alfred was holding his body. Maybe the man was going to dive right into the wood paneling of the floor.

"Help me put the shirt on." Alfred wiggled his arms.

"And you claim to be an adult." Arthur helped Alfred put the spare shirt on without much fuss, doing his best to smooth the wrinkles that decorated the midsection of the fabric with firm strokes of his palm. Alfred, always a tad on the ticklish side, began to giggle. "Let's get you some bottoms now."

"I think I'll pass on the bottoms," Alfred said casually.

"And sleep in what you have on now?" Arthur's vision drifted downward to Alfred's jeans. The damp material had begun to cling even closer to Alfred's flesh now, forming itself to the curves of his skin, wrapped so tightly Arthur could nearly imagine the warmth that lay beneath it. Again his eyes caught on the large hole the marked the thigh of Alfred's jeans. His fingers twitched, still wanting to hook into the material and give it a hearty pull.

"I won't sleep in these, butter bean." Alfred was back to his peculiar drunken nicknames, fingers floundering about the copper button of his jeans.

"You certainly won't be sleeping without bottoms." Arthur considered ducking out of the room to avoid the embarrassment of watching Alfred's jeans come off, but noticed with a pang of irritation the man was taking up the whole of the doorway.

"Why not?" Alfred's hands had moved to take care of the zipper. "Feels good, man."

"Because it's lewd and generally inappropriate."

"It's not like─" Alfred began to struggle with sliding his jeans off, the wet material refusing to give in. "─I'm sleeping in your bed."

It dawned on Arthur that he had been assuming Alfred and him would be sharing a bed. He knew that once the thunder and lightning grew from the blowing storm outside, Alfred would be diving under the covers, a habit, or fear, really, that he had never been able to rid himself of.

"I think I need your help again." Alfred's brow was furrowed in concentration, a light glaze of sweat showing upon his face.

"I'm not taking your pants off of you."

"But then I won't be able to get them off," Alfred protested. "Just pull on the belt loops, I won't look."

"I'm not worried about _you_ looking." Arthur took a step closer, though he was not entirely devoted to the act of pulling Alfred's clothes off. _Wouldn't want him to be stuck in wet clothes now, he'd fetch himself a cold,_ he tried to convince himself.

"Okay, you don't have to look either." Alfred closed the distance that had kept him from Arthur, loosely draping his arms around the other's shoulders.

Arthur's fingers found themselves being wound into the loops of Alfred's jeans without any further need of provocation. He began to tug downwards in short bursts as Alfred continued to hold onto his neck, his skin almost burning against Arthur's own.

Arthur flushed, the heat itching as it scaled across his body. Alfred had begun to wriggle in an attempt to assist Arthur in getting his jeans off, but the more he moved, the more he seemed to slip against Arthur's body, his mouth drawing closer to the flesh of Arthur's neck with every spastic jerk, hips occasionally bumping against one another's. Arthur's heart thumped loudly in his chest, railing against his skin until he was petrified that Alfred would soon take notice of it.

Alfred made an animalistic growl as he continued in his backwards way to help Arthur, back arching inward to meet with Arthur's own body. Arthur gasped at the contact, his hands loosening from the belt loops of Alfred's jeans, moving of their own free will.

They traced fleetingly along Alfred's backside, moving beneath his shirt, calloused pads delighting in the smooth planes of Alfred's curved back, greedily taking in the ridges of scarred tissue from battles long ago won and lost.

In an instant Alfred had jerked himself away, Arthur's nails digging into his skin in an attempt hold him close. He turned away, nearly tumbling over his own feet in the process. A sneeze sounded in the room, Alfred's, compressed and squeaky, high within his chest.

The noise was loud enough to pull Arthur's common sense together again, to force him into the realisation of what he was doing. He gaped at Alfred, horrified with himself for attempting to touch the American in a manner beyond simple friendship, and while the other was drunk, at that.

To take advantage of someone in such a state, it was unforgivable in his own eyes, and as someone with a hero complex, Alfred was sure to share the same views regarding such actions.

"Oh God," Arthur gasped, "I didn't mean to, I really didn't─" In an instant he had darted for the blocked door, bowling Alfred over as he made his escape.

He ran to the master bedroom, sliding and slipping along the floor in his rush, banging against the walls and knocking over decorations. The moment he was within the the safety of his room, he locked the door. He yanked on the knob to check its strength before quickly maneuvering over to his writing desk, dragging a chair that sat in front of it to the door and propping it beneath the handle. There was no way he could face Alfred after what he had done.

A/N: Too lazy to fix the grammatical mistakes in this chapter, durdily dur.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur's heart beat furiously, throwing itself again and again against the wall of his chest. The atmosphere in the room seemed to twitch and vibrate, urging Arthur's nerves into a panic. He knew Alfred would be at the door any minute now. He'd wrench it open, the door screeching as it was ripped from its hinges, and then he'd toss it away as if it were light as a babe.

Arthur hadn't the faintest idea of what would ensue after that. At best, he figured, he'd get a world class ass-kicking from the American. Not that he didn't deserve it. He was quite sure he did. To take advantage of Alfred in such a way, intentional or not, was a depraved act he thought himself incapable of until tonight. And what if Alfred had not drawn back? How far would Arthur have gone then?

Despite his actions, Arthur's guilt was not without an end. Alfred had been the one who had come to him, the one who had initiated their brief contact. He had been the one moving against Arthur's body in such an alluring fashion, enticing Arthur without end until it became too much for him to handle.

Arthur huddled at the foot of his bed, the previous moments playing through his mind. Alfred had been so warm, so welcome to his touch. Completely unresisting. Arthur licked his lips thoughtfully, his mind wallowing in the pleasant, if not fleeting, experience.

His thoughts moved slowly, twisting into indulgent fantasies, of what could have been if not for that sneeze. The warmth of Alfred's limbs intertwining with his, the whines of affection that would have graced his ears. If only─

Arthur's eyes snapped open, unable to remember when he had closed them. The faint creak of wooden panels traveled under the floor, grating against Arthur's ears.

Instantly Arthur was on his feet, his breath leaving him in the motion. He was sure he had heard Alfred as he stepped closer to the room. Perhaps he was already at the door. Waiting, his fists clenching and unclenching. Maybe he was going box Arthur's head in, give him a cauliflower ear.

No, that would be too merciful. Alfred was not cruel, but dealt with a certain enthusiasm when handing out his own self-approved justice. Arthur wondered if it would be okay to fight back. It wasn't his fault completely, he had already affirmed that. He had started nothing, only finished, or at least attempted to, what had already begun. The idea of attempting to fend Alfred off was not wholly appeasing, but the only escape option he could formulate was to flee through the window.

The idea of absconding from his own home left a sour taste in Arthur's mouth. This was _his_ castle. He had been the one kind enough to let Alfred. Maybe he even deserved a bit of payment in return, and who was to say just what kind of payment he could ask for? To top it off Alfred had been the first to offer, after all. Arthur hadn't the slightest desire for anything in return for his hospitality up until Alfred had nearly _pushed_ it upon him.

Arthur shook his head, cleaning the half-formed cobwebs of deviant ideas from his mind. He wasn't going to take advantage of Alfred in his drunken state, just as he wouldn't take advantage of Alfred if he was sober. He'd help Alfred out of the goodness of his heart, to leave the American with fond impressions of British hospitality.

Quivering metal sounded in the room. Arthur's eyes jolted to the source of the noise. The doorknob. It had moved. Only momentarily, yes, but it _had_. Arthur was sure of it. His eyes were locked now, refusing to blink. Silent mortification clutched at him as he watched the doorknob begin to turn again. It groaned loudly as it shifted, the moment dragging horrendously slow as Arthur stood rooted to the spot.

The knob stopped turning once it had hit the end of its allotted track. Alfred seemed to have opted against forcing the lock, from the silence that followed. Or perhaps he was weighing his options. Arthur was sure the other would have no problem playing a human battering ram if he felt it was justified.

The paneling creaked again as Arthur's lungs began to burn from lack of fresh oxygen. He saw the light squeezing through the underside of the door shift and twist into dark patches. He heard Alfred outside the door, moving about. He glimpsed an elbow, a forearm, a lock of hair. The glint of a blue eye.

Arthur nearly _screamed_. He was in a horror movie. He had to be. Alfred was on his hands and knees, peering under the door, trying to pin Arthur down with his gaze. Soon he would strike, soon he would be upon Arthur with flying fists and crushing kicks.

Arthur's heart clawed its way up his throat, desperate to desert its confines and what felt like an impending death. Arthur himself began to feel slightly dizzy, the blood rushing from his head and flooding his veins as it clamored to his limbs. Every hair stood on edge, deciding alongside Arthur's heart to attempt an escape. His eyes felt as though they were going to _bulge_ from their sockets.

The shadows beneath the door began to shift again. Something was being pushed beneath the door, some mangled mass Arthur's eyes could not understand. Alfred continued to push the objects further under the door, only resting when they cleared the small gap. The process continued several times before Arthur heard Alfred get back to his feet.

For several minutes Arthur sat, waiting, knowing that there was more to come. Any second now he'd be fighting the American, to Hell with Matthew's claims that he wasn't s violent drunk. He passed the time by studying the lumpy masses that had been forced under the door, struggling without reward to make out exactly what he was looking at.

Slowly, ever so slowly, his boiling fear eased to a gentle simmer, weak enough for him to regain control of his body, strong enough that he was still on edge. He stepped lightly on the balls of his feet, making his way closer to the door, alert for any movements coming from the opposing side.

He lay his ear against the door, his eyes sealing themselves shut as he listened intently for Alfred's presence. A certain embarrassment gripped his consciousness. He was being _silly_. Alfred wasn't an axe murderer from a horror movie, and Arthur was no blonde and busty bimbo that couldn't go two steps without tripping. Clearly there would be no mortal wounds dealt out in his household tonight.

Still scolding himself for having reacted so poorly to the situation yet again, Arthur flicked on the light. He looked to the floor, curious as to what had infiltrated his sanctuary.

A handful of dainty tea roses littered the floor, fragile as a finch's bones, painted beautiful creamed colors of peach and champagne. Arthur instantly recognized them from his yard. They were dotted with droplets of water, no doubt having been brought in from the rain only recently. Their sweet fragrance brushed along Arthur's nose, striking up a certain calmness that only flowers could bring him. A clear peace offering.

Arthur's vision became blurred and watery as he stooped to pick the flowers up, unsalvagable petals spiraling as they fell to the floor. Alfred's childish antics always shot straight through Arthur. Leaving flowers like this, so innocent and pure. Maybe Alfred harbored no ill feeling against him.

Everything had happened so fast, it was possible in his drunken state that Alfred hadn't been able to piece together the information of what was going on. Only understanding that he had sneezed and in turn Arthur had bolted like a hare. Now he was probably confused, even scared, certainly unsure of why he was being suddenly shut out by Arthur.

Arthur wiped the back of his forearm over his eyes, resolving not to cry over something as simple as flowers. He looked about for an empty vase to place the flowers in, but found none. He moved to the window, pulling the thick curtains aside. Perhaps he'd hang them to dry instead. The flowers might not be the best reminder of the night, he knew, but they were a gift, and in Arthur's eyes all gifts were to be treasured.

Arthur's hand moved over the window's clear pane, his breath forming steamed patches as he leaned forward to view the outside world. The rain had not let up, but had instead become so fierce that the world outside looked as if it were going through a power wash, grass flattened from the force of the rain, tree boughs bent under the pressure. Arthur knew it would smell beautiful in the morning.

White lightning blazed across the night sky, splintering against the clouds. Thunder cracked through its wake, rolling from the heavens to the Earth before it traveled through Arthur's body, reverberating through his bones. The noise dragged on for nearly a minute, the world seeming to shudder beneath Arthur.

He immediately thought of Alfred, wondering if he would be slamming himself against the door at any minute, begging to be let in, to be kept safe from the storm. Arthur set the roses on the sill, tracing his fingers along the petals before going back to the door.

The door made a hushed _click_ as it was unlocked by Arthur's hand. He opened it, only a sliver at first, curious green eyes peeking to see if Alfred was on his way. His head emerged from the gap after a moment. The emptiness of the hall before him blanketed his senses. Not even the slightest pitter patter of bare feet moving along the floor.

Arthur left his room, his hand trailing along the edge of the handle as he drew away. He wandered through the house, unaware of what a lost little child he appeared to be, looking for an invisible trail of bread crumbs back to Alfred.

He checked the storage-guest room hybrid at first, finding only a damp trail of water, reflective in the light that shone from the ceiling. Arthur followed the trail with complete vigilance, stalking it as it swung back to his door, where a barely noticeable pool had formed, complimented by the few petals that had been unable to make it under the door.

The trail doubled back, away from the few petals that remained. It began a new path, coasting towards the restroom that lay not far away. Arthur cautiously entered, his eyes straining to take pick out any human forms in the darkness. He flicked the light on the find Alfred's wet jeans and dripping shirt hung up.

Arthur looked them over, his hands scampering across the material, finally able to satisfy his urges by pulling at the holes, but he knew his true desire was no longer related to the jeans. It never was. Like everything, his urges were directly linked to Alfred. Arthur flicked the light switch off and continued his search.

As the threads of his thoughts frayed into a tangled mess, lightning flashed again. The followup of thunder was instantaneous, the noise, teeth rattling. A nervous clot began to roil in his chest. He was almost running through the house now, the need to find Alfred growing with every step. He'd begun to think that Alfred may have run out into the night before a lit room caught his eye.

_The kitchen_. Arthur smacked his forehead, unhappy with himself for not having thought of checking there sooner. Alfred always seemed to be floating about where food was to be found. Not that Arthur minded, as Alfred never let a single scone of Arthur's go to waste, no matter how much a fuss he would put up if someone saw him eating them.

Arthur took a moment to compose himself before going to the kitchen, blocking out the surrounding booms of thunder that had caused a bloom of discomfort in his stomach. He strode with a confident air, through the threshold and into the kitchen, chin held high and eyes clear of worry.

The first thing he spotted was Alfred, hunched on a high chair, his arms shielding his head which lay on the marble countertop. His shoulders shuddered in bursts, sobs scrambling from his throat every time he tried to breath. He spasmed in fear as another crack of lightning shot through the sky, crying out as another boom of thunder wrenched through the vacuum that had been left for it.

Arthur bit his lower lip as his heart crumpled, the scene before him too much to handle. As loath to admit it as he was, Alfred was a strong nation now, and had been for quite some time. To live his life in fear of an act so common to nature was a shame. A shame Arthur could not help but want to soothe.

He went silently to Alfred's side, without pomp or pretense. He placed a caring hand on the frightened man's back, running up and down the length of his spine in a repetitive motion. Alfred's shudders doubled at Arthur's touch, and his arms grappling in an effort to cover more of his head, guarding himself from both the weather and Arthur.

"Please don't cry," were the first that fell Arthur's lips, the first thoughts that came to his mind.

A distressed sob morphed into a strained cough as Alfred attempted to obey Arthur's request. Arthur's mind stumbled, unable to form a significant plan of action calm the other into a communicable state. He acted on instinct, removing his hand from Alfred's back, freeing himself to lay across Alfred's upper body.

He spoke softly and sweetly to Alfred, who had stilled in his arms when embraced. He prattled on about badgers, Renaissance painters, cross stitch trends, and every little subject that came to mind until Alfred began to loosen in his arms, until the horrible shuddering began to taper off.

"Alfred?" Arthur asked, voice concerned.

"What?" Alfred kept his head covered, face hidden from view.

Arthur was unsure as to what more he could say. He hadn't truly expected a response from the other, and merely felt obligated to say his name for comfort. He was sure there were no words that Alfred hadn't heard before regarding his fear and how he needed to overcome it. He'd have to take a different approach.

"It's okay," Arthur began, speaking only so Alfred would hear his voice. "If you want to be upset. I know when I was still small I wad afraid of lightning, too."

Alfred sniffled and mumbled through his arms, "I'm not little."

"I know you're no longer little," Arthur lied, "but I guess you can be allowed an irrational fear or two."

"I can?"

"Yes, you may."

Alfred's arms unfurled as he lifted his head. Arthur smiled weakly at the man's face, skin blotched with tears that had been shed, eyes watering with those yet to be. His lips quivered. Arthur reached out with a tender finger and touched the soft pink, the perfect Cupid's bow. It curled under his touch, still trembling, but now beginning to take the form of a smile.

"See? Everything will be fine, the storm will blow over soon enough." Arthur's smile became genuine as he drew Alfred's face to his own before lightly placing his lips against the other's forehead. His brow furrowed in confusion. Alfred's skin was still very warm, almost peculiarly so now that the sensitive skin of Arthur's lips were resting upon the others flesh.

He drew back, thumbing a stream of tears from Alfred's cheek. He attempted to look past the glazed emptiness of the American's eyes, to locate something buried deeper, but there was nothing to be found. Alfred blinked dumbly and rested his cheek against Arthur's hand, sighing heavily.

"Are you at all ill, Alfred?"

"I feel kind of warm," Alfred admitted shyly, drawing away from Arthur's touch.

Arthur recalled the feelings he had always experienced when afflicted with fever. The layer of heat one felt licking beneath their skin, the aches of one's limbs, the ever growing pressure that formed behind one's eyes, and of course general unease. Such heavy pressure, thick and lining the veins, heavy and without mercy as it struck at the sickened without thought. He felt great pity for Alfred. Fevered, drunk, and frightened of the outside world for the time being.

"Is there anything I can get you?" Arthur offered.

"Nah, I'm sure I can sleep it off." Alfred forced a sickly smile.

"Are you sure?" Arthur wandered over to the pantry. He nosed about within, pressing past towers of canned goods and expired cooking ingredients before finding something edible. A bag of sweet almonds. Arthur pulled the bag from the cupboard and shut it.

"What's that?"

"Almonds. Why not have a few?" Arthur poured a handful into his palm and approached Alfred. "It won't hurt to have something nice and light."

Alfred lowered his head obligingly, his lips grazing Arthur's palm as his gently lapped up the almonds. Arthur suppressed an uncharacteristic giggle, his eyes alight with childish joy. The ticklish brush of Alfred's lips reminded him of how the horses used to feed on sugar cubes straight from his hand without hesitation.

Arthur set the bag of almonds on the counter top, providing himself with a free hand. His face softened as he carded fingertips through Alfred's hair, a fair nimbus with a silken texture that kissed one's fingers. Alfred breathed into Arthur's hand when he had finished the almonds, content to rest as Arthur continued to stroke him.

"Would you like something to drink before bed?" Arthur's hands dropped back to his side, a tinge of red brushing his cheeks with a merry glow.

Alfred licked his lips as he rose, his hands pushing off his knees in an effort to help himself up. "Couldn't hurt."

Arthur made his way to refrigerator with a bit of a spring in his step, unable to smother his elation regarding how well things had smoothed themselves out. He pulled the magnetic door open and ducked his head low, reading out the beverage choices as he saw them. "Water, milk, pomegranate juice..." There was also a single can of beer residing in a corner, but Arthur decided that was not an option for Alfred.

"I want the beer," Alfred announced, his head making an appearance beside Arthur's.

"You've had enough to drink tonight."

"But I still want the beer." Alfred reached across and grabbed the can, jumping back from the fridge before Arthur could snatch it from his hands. He pressed it against his forehead and allowed his eyelids to flutter shut, a momentary bliss dancing across his expression.

"Have you ever considered I might want that?" Arthur pried the can from Alfred's fingers, which gave easily. He placed it back inside the fridge.

"I did, but I want it more." Alfred lay he hands on Arthur's chest, big, heavy paws. His face took on the characteristics of a kicked puppy. Eyes full of need for reassurance and love, brows furrowed with desperation.

"What are you doing?"

"Please?" Alfred began to knead Arthur's shirt, 'making biscuits', he had always called it.

"Give me three good reasons." Arthur turned his head away, his resolve wavering.

"Because I'm _thirsty_, and a guest should always have their thirst quenched."

"There are other drinks," Arthur countered.

"I want _that one_," Alfred whined in reference to the beer. His face held the greed of a child, one set on a specific plaything.

"You are providing terrible reasons."

Alfred changed tactic, furrows of frustration melting into a softer expression. He began to knead at Arthur's chest again, moving his hands rhythmically against Arthur, glossy lips parting slightly. "_Pretty please_?" he begged, pressing his body flush against Arthur's.

"I-I don't know..." Arthur backed himself against the open refrigerator, the contents within jangling as he bumped against the frame.

"_I want it_," Alfred moaned, his words hot and breathy as they tickled along Arthur's skin. Arms brushed alongside Arthur's torso, tweaking at the fabric with fluttering fingers.

Arthur sputtered out thin protests, his own arms awkwardly pushing at Alfred, but his heart was not in the movements. Alfred's lips were at his throat, murmuring pleading words to have his thirst quenched. His hands continued to move along Arthur's sides, sliding past and reaching within the fridge─

"Thank you, Arthur," he cooed suddenly, reeling back with can in hand.

"You sly little _doxy_! Sneaking about like that, I can't even fathom where you picked up such behaviors." Arthur smoothed the surface of his shirt, desperate for an outlet for his hands. They scrambled along his chest, creating more wrinkles than they erased. He was torn between throttling Alfred and ravishing him.

The beer can creaked as it was opened, a pleasant hiss following. Alfred tipped the rim to his lips and drank. Arthur watched as Alfred's Adam's apple bobbed, buoy-like with every mouthful. Arthur touched at his own throat, for want of touching Alfred, lightly grazing his skin.

Alfred let out a satisfied sigh as he lowered the can from his mouth, his eyes trained on Arthur's hands, a curious frown playing on his lips. "I didn't learn it from anyone in particular, but it certainly is useful." he lurched forward and smacked a sloppy kiss on Arthur's nose. "Thanks again," he chimed.

"_Alfred_," Arthur scolded, a furious blush stealing across him. He rubbed at his nose quickly as he spoke, "Listen to yourself, and _look_ at yourself. You sound like a wanton woman, filled with lust now that her husband has passed, willing to please any many in order to indulge in her own unsavory wants-"

"You're right," Alfred interrupted solemnly. "I see the err of my ways. Please start the car up─" he took a hearty swig from his well-earned beer. "I shall fetch my wimple, and you must take me in great haste to the nunnery."

A bark of laugh escaped from Arthur, a rare occasion where he fell prey to Alfred's wit, his anxiety fading. "Really now, let's get you to bed, as Matthew prescribed."

Alfred went back to nursing his beer, looking at Arthur from beneath dark and spidery lashes, peeking out only just above his spectacles. "Where am I sleeping?" He gnawed slightly on the tin mouth of the can, a tiny metallic clang sounding with each nip.

"Er, well, wherever you'd best like to, I suppose."

Alfred continued to bite at the can, a nervous edge urging him on. His eyes flicked to the drapes he had drawn over the kitchen window. The can began to crumple loudly under his fidgeting hands.

"Don't do that." Arthur fished the can from Alfred's hands, noting with disdain that it was already empty. "You'll slice your fingers up."

Alfred clutched fruitlessly several times for the can, lips twisting and opening as he tried to communicate his wants. "Would your bed be alright?" His lips pursed immediately, as if the words were not meant to be spoken.

Arthur tossed the can in the recycling and offered a smile. "Of course."

With a relieved sigh, Alfred sidled up as best he could to Arthur, who held out his arm in a most gentlemanly fashion, poised and perfect in his stance. Alfred laughed at the sight before linking his arm with Arthur. "Lead the way!" he declared.

Arthur walked steadily down the hallway and towards his room, pausing every few moments to feel Alfred rub up against him as he tried to keep his balance. Arthur's heart felt a beating elation as he led Alfred, as if a band of birds had begun to cheep and hop about inside him, singing their wondrous birdsong so filled with joy.

Soon Arthur could not bear to have Alfred only hooked by the link of his arm. He relinquished the American momentarily, turning so that he could take both of Alfred's hands in his own. A grin spread across his face as Alfred squeezed his hands in return. They were both like giddy children. Skipping and giggling along the hall, Arthur pulling on Alfred as if he were taking him to a hidden clearing in the woods.

Lightning pierced the heavens, momentarily lighting there was. In the instant it took for the thunder to follow, Alfred's legs folded beneath him, turning to useless threads of twine. He hit the floor with an audible _thunk_, arms resuming their protective placement over his head.

Arthur was immediately at his side, kneeling upon the ground as he rested a hand on Alfred's back, murmuring softly, sweetly. His wits within his hold, he began to speak again, but with words he had not used since Alfred was a boy, the words that had always calmed him.

"My little lamb, lie peaceful," he began, ears turning red with embarrassment over the age of his words. "For the world outside is beyond the gates of our hearth, unable to lay not a single frigid finger upon your flesh."

Alfred twitched slightly at Arthur's words, faintly recognizing them from a time that had long since ceased to be. Arthur did not go on, the words conjuring up memories that made him want to scream for the past. He pillowed his arms on Alfred's back and concentrated on the rise and fall of the other's breath, quick and strained. The labored breathing of the fevered and frightened.

When thunder sounded again, it was but a distant roar. Alfred had refused to come out of his turtle-like position, instead content to shiver away as the night dragged, calmed only when Arthur would begin to lull his fears with delicate words. Arthur knew he could not have Alfred sleep in the middle of the hallway.

"Shall I carry you?" Arthur sighed.

"Impossible." Alfred raised his head to turn incredulous eyes at Arthur.

"I may be old, but I'm not decrepit." Arthur stood, his knees making a cacophony of crackling noises. "On your feet."

Alfred rolled onto his back, but made no effort to stand. Arthur begrudgingly kneeled once more, realising too late that if Alfred was willing to get to his feet, he'd already be in bed. He wriggled his arms beneath Alfred, who willingly raised his hips momentarily to make the task easier.

Arthur repressed a shiver at the feel of Alfred's thigh, against his forearm. He savored the weight of it, the warmth of it, how it rested so easily against his own flesh.

"What are you smiling about?" Alfred's expression was pensive.

"Was I smiling?" Arthur sputtered, "Can't fathom why." he carefully hoisted Alfred up as he stood, his lower back straining uncomfortably with effort.

Alfred curled in Arthur's arms, his heavy breath easing in the peaceful hold he was being held within. He turned his cheek to Arthur's chest, nose burying into the fabric of Arthur's shirt, who carried him onwards.

"You're so nice to me, buttercup," Alfred proclaimed as Arthur carried him through the doorway.

"Don't worry about it." Arthur hooked his foot about the door and pulled it shut. He thought they had moved beyond the drunken nicknames already.

"But I _do_ worry about it─" Alfred let out a small gasp as he was heaved upon the bed, springing upwards from recoil. "I know I owe you for this. Just tell me what to do and I'll be like-" he snapped his fingers, "Bang! Your wish is my command."

Arthur's eyes slipped along Alfred's body in the low light provided by the window, Alfred's words sinking into his mind. He observed the fair and unmarred skin of Alfred's legs, how his thighs lay across the deep red sheets of Arthur's bed, beckoning to Arthur in their contrast. The way Alfred's hands playfully pulled at the hem of his shirt, tugging the fabric in such a manner Arthur could not bring himself to stop staring.

"I'm sure I can think of something," Arthur purred as he strode forward, pouncing upon Alfred is if he were a fly caught in his web.

To Hell with the consequences.


	5. Chapter 5

Alfred laughed uproariously as he rolled along the bed, rendering Arthur's pounce short of its intended target. Arthur hit the bed with a _whumph_ and sighed, exasperated. Alfred seemed to be treating this as a fun little before-bed game. Arthur would not allow that illusion to last. His arms flew out in the darkness, honing in on Alfred, clutching at the fabric of the other's shirt.

Alfred wriggled happily at his touch, his mindset that of an excited child. Arthur dragged him closer, as if he were dragging a lifesaver towards himself. "Oh no you _don't_," he muttered between gritted teeth.

"You caught me," Alfred chittered as he was pulled across the bed towards Arthur.

Arthur lashed his arms to Alfred as soon as he was within his reach. Alfred's face bumped into his chest, the frames of his glasses digging into Arthur's flesh. "Take those things off."

"I need my hands for that." Alfred's arms were pinned to his sides by Arthur's grip.

"Right," Arthur conceded, loosening his hold just enough so that Alfred could slide an arm out.

Alfred wrapped his free arm around Arthur's shoulder in a floppy hug, his glasses still perched upon his face.

"Texas," Arthur reminded.

"I wear them to bed."

"Not tonight you won't." Arthur clutched Alfred as close as he could, ignoring Alfred's arm as it flailed about, signaling that Arthur was holding him too tightly, that Arthur was crushing him in the embrace.

The two of them stayed as such, Alfred too stubborn to take his glasses off, Arthur unwilling to let Alfred go. In the time that passed, Arthur began to garner the beginnings of second thoughts. If Alfred was trying to get away from him so quickly, he'd surely go through the roof if Arthur were to press so much as a kiss to his lips.

"Okay, okay, you win," Alfred quailed, "I'll take them off."

A smug smile traipsed across Arthur's lips. His first victory of the night. "You have a free hand, go on."

Alfred made a great show of removing his spectacles, mumbling under his breath that they were part of his identity, that being forced to take off his glasses was 'an act of public injustice'. The tipsy slips of his tongue told Arthur he was merely whining to be difficult.

"Now, let's have a look at you." Arthur balanced himself upon the bed, sitting on his knees. He held Alfred at arm's length.

Alfred blinked in the darkness, liquid blue eyes flickering. The low light of the room washed over his face, accentuating the childish roundness that had never faded. Without his glasses, Arthur was struck by a distinct _rightness_ in Alfred's appearance.

It was how he imagined Alfred would have looked if he hadn't left Arthur. If Alfred had stayed under his wing, been more open to Arthur's guidance. If he had trusted Arthur's judgement, and had understood that the limits Arthur had placed on him were for the best.

Of course so many others had implanted ideas in Alfred's head, telling him that Arthur was holding him back from greatness for no reason beyond wanting to keep Alfred under his thumb. Arthur had always known that Alfred hadn't been capable of forming such notions without help, and seeing Alfred without his glasses once more only strengthened his belief in that.

Alfred fumbled his glasses in his hands as Arthur looked him over, holding them close to his chest.

Arthur frowned as he continued to think over Alfred's spectacles. He had always hated those things. He hated how they made Alfred look as though he might have an inkling of what he was doing, the false symbol of intelligence that so many fell for. He hated how Alfred would always play with them during meetings, making it nigh impossible for Arthur to pay attention to the subject matter at hand. The way Alfred so lovingly stroked the arms of his glasses, how he'd buff the lenses with the utmost amount of attention and perfection.

Arthur wanted Alfred to treat him like that, to pay such undivided attention to him. He had put his blood, sweat, and tears into this idiot. He had invested his personal time, energy, and emotions. He wanted to reap the fruit of his efforts, and now was the perfect opportunity.

"Oh, _Alfred_," Arthur crooned darkly, taking his glasses from him and tossing them aside. They landed on the floor with a clatter, the noise bringing Alfred out from under his stupor.

"What the heck, why did you chuck my glasses?" he gaped.

Arthur sighed, removing a hand from Alfred's shoulder to affectionately stroke the side of his face. The tips of his fingers skimmed the delicate skin about Alfred's eyes, and he involuntarily flinched away.

"Have I ever told you how positively _lovely_ you look without your glasses?"

"I think my glasses make me a strapping young buck. But, uh, no. I don't think you've said I look nice without them before."

"_Lovely_," Arthur corrected.

"Lovely," Alfred echoed in return, his eyes downcast with modesty.

"Because you do look lovely without them, and I most certainly mean that." Arthur gave a feather-light press on Alfred's shoulders, sending the other flat on his back.

Alfred sprawled on the bed sheets, taken in by Arthur's compliments. He touched at the absence of his glasses, his cheeks reddening. He paid no notice as Arthur silently straddled him, a knee flanking either side of his hips.

A throaty chuckle rumbled in Arthur's chest as he went unopposed. Clearly Alfred needed only the slightest sprinkle of sweet words to turn to putty, willing to put up with any sort of outrageous behavior, if only for more compliments.

Arthur positioned himself, resting his backside on Alfred's stomach, delighting in the dazed rise and fall of the breathing beneath him. He drank in the warmth of Alfred's body, shivering in anticipation of what he knew was to come, even if Alfred was unaware.

"What are you doing?" Alfred whispered.

Arthur answered him by leaning forward and placing a tender kiss on Alfred's mouth. He could smell the alcohol emanating from the other. His tongue darted across Alfred's lips, tasting the excess. He nipped greedily at Alfred's lips, ignoring how the booze repelled him so. Alfred made to speak, but the moment his lips opened, Arthur took advantage of the opportunity and deepened the kiss.

Alfred's back arched upwards to meet Arthur, and Arthur drank in his startled gasp. His tongue snaked around Alfred's mouth, exploring the heat and wetness of it, flicking along his teeth and intertwining their tongues, urging the other to reciprocate his affections.

Alfred continued to writhe beneath Arthur, but feverishly turned his head away, breaking the kiss. Arthur pulled back, a thin thread of saliva snapping between them. He clenched his knees against Alfred's hips, rutting slightly with need. He wouldn't allow this to end so abruptly.

Alfred covered his face with his hands to ward off any further advances from Arthur. "The window is _open_," he hissed, clearly distraught.

Arthur's head involuntarily swiveled to singular window of the room, which looked to be securely closed. "Don't tell such lies." He had not the patience for interruptions.

"Well they're not 'open' open, but anyone could look in and see us. _Anyone_."

Arthur wondered if Alfred had any particular person in mind when he said 'anyone'. "That's it? You're worried because the curtains haven't been drawn?"

"Yes," Alfred murmured, and Arthur knew from the flustered tone he used that it was the truth.

"Fine," Arthur grumbled as he dismounted, making no movement to hide his own arousal. "I don't have to do this for you. Of course I still will, but only this once." He ripped the curtains closed, staring at them for a moment, his eyes moving along the heavy folds as he waited for his anger to subside. He did not take kindly to being refused.

He turned back to Alfred, who was still lounging upon the duvet. He saw the anxious tension radiating from Alfred, how his fists clenched into nervous balls, knees brought together tightly. His eyes avoided Arthur's at all cost, becoming engrossed in a spot above Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur knew he'd have to move more slowly, to refrain from inundating Alfred with his lust. He'd take it one painfully slow step at a time. _But_, he reminded himself, _the results will be more than worth it._ Lazily, his head lolled to the side as his honied tongue set to work once again.

"My sweet, _strong_ Alfred," he began, taking deliberately listless steps toward him, "Do you know what my favorite thing is about heroes?"

Alfred's knees loosened at the mention of heroes, his eyes bouncing to the ceiling, wracking his booze-addled mind for the correct answer. "They save lives?"

"That's part of it." Arthur took a seat at the head of the bed.

"Everyone likes them?" Arthur questioned innocently, looking to Arthur for the correct answer, his body lax and unguarded.

"They make people _happy_," Arthur purred, deep and throaty, leaning in so that his words tickled the side of Alfred's face.

"They do," Alfred agreed, his balled fist slapping the flat of his palm, as if the information were a sudden revelation.

"Do you want to make me happy?" Arthur nuzzled the alabaster skin of Alfred's neck, his smile pressing against his quickening pulse.

"Of course I do," Alfred's voice cracked with surprise, unsure of where Arthur was heading with their conversation.

"Good." Arthur's lips molded to Alfred's neck as he began to pepper his skin with fleeting kisses.

Alfred laughed slightly, the noise humming against Arthur's lips as it moved up his throat. Arthur's hand made its way to the end of Alfred's shirt, covertly raising it as his lips continued to distract Alfred. He can't help but suckle at Alfred's Adam's apple, unable to stop himself from luxuriating in the rise and fall of it as Alfred gulped back enthralled cries.

Before Alfred could make the slightest of protests, Arthur reared back and drew Alfred's shirt from over his head in a movement so quick his eyes were hardly capable of measuring it. Alfred immediately pulled his arms to his chest, shielding his bared skin out of instinct.

Arthur dropped the shirt to the floor, his hands moving to Alfred's own. He pried Alfred's hands away, eyes gleaming with lust as he took in every centimeter of Alfred's exposed body. Every hitch of his breath apparent, every drop of sweat visible.

"Is this alright by you?" Arthur asked cheekily, his tongue leaving a trail of slick saliva as it drew across the skin of Alfred's collarbone.

"Pfft, I can handle whatever you throw at me." Alfred's voice was full of bravado, his arms wrapping around Arthur as he continued to taste his flesh.

Alfred tasted of salty sweat and hormones, of cloudless summer skies and freshly hung laundry. Arthur etched the tastes into his mind as his hands moved along Alfred's sides, reveling in the touch of skin against skin, in Alfred's yielding body.

His lips traveled upwards to Alfred's lips, nipping at the corner of them, teasingly at first, but then with a certain roughness when Alfred tried to speak. He won't let Alfred ruin the moment, and coaxed him into silence with hungry kisses, allowing only gasps and moans to escape.

Arthur laughed into Alfred's mouth when he felt Alfred begin to return his kisses, an artless meshing of lips, a tentative touch of tongues. _He's so very inexperienced_, Arthur thought to himself, _but oh so willing to please_.

He adored Alfred's inexperience. It reassured him that there are still things in which he is better at than Alfred, things he can still teach Alfred. No matter how much Alfred ages and grows, he'll have to come back to Arthur to learn, because Arthur knew that even after all these years, Alfred still considered him as a kind of teacher. A very unorthodox, hands on type of teacher.

Arthur cradled Alfred's face in his hands, tongue invading every bit of Alfred's mouth. He loved the impossible warmth brought on by the fever, and hips began to buck against Alfred's skin, straining at the confines of his pants.

Arthur seized Alfred's hands in his own, pulling them down with a calmness that was betrayed by the heavy panting of his own body. He rested Alfred's hands upon his loin, urging Alfred to rub his hardened length, both by the involuntary curl of his hips towards the other, and by guiding Alfred's hand in circular stroking motions.

At first, Alfred tried to pull his hands away, startled at the realization of what he was feeling. His body froze. Arthur ignored the lack of response from his partner, continuing in his all consuming kisses, teeth skimming and clinking against Alfred's, the sound of wet, open-mouthed kisses filling the room.

Arthur nearly roared with delight when he felt Alfred's hands stir under his, no longer trying to draw away as they had before, but instead continuing in the movements Arthur had taught him. Arthur's hands shot to the button of his slacks, his insides searing with lust and need with no room for self control.

Alfred swatted Arthur's hands away. "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." He began to inelegantly unbutton Arthur's pants, breathing deeply in his drunken effort.

"You'll take too long," Arthur muttered. Alfred had not the skill in his state to take anyone's pants off in a timely manner, as he had already demonstrated with his own jeans. "If you want to make yourself useful, get on the floor."

Alfred slipped to the floor without question, his back resting on the cool wooden floor. He folded his hands upon his stomach, but his head turned to search the floor, presumably for his glasses. Arthur shed his slacks with the slightest expenditure of effort, shaking his head at Alfred.

"When I told you to get on the floor, I didn't mean to lay on it."

Alfred looked to him. "Then what did you mean?"

"Don't play games with me, you know exactly what I was asking you to do," Arthur sputtered, a moment of prudishness stopping him from a graphic explanation.

"Maybe you should be more clear then," Alfred argued back, his words coated in a drunken halo.

"Fine. Get on your knees," Arthur snapped as he removed his briefs, shuddering with relief as it was released from its confines. He situated himself at the edge of the bed, his thighs opened.

Alfred brought himself to balance on his knees, body swaying with the influence of booze. He positioned himself between Arthur's knees, hands hesitantly perched upon Arthur's thighs. Alfred looked at Arthur's length, taking in the solidity of it, the enlarged veins that ran along it, the slight gloss of pre-cum that trickled from the slit of the head.

"I don't know what to do," Alfred stuttered shamefully, looking up to Arthur for direction.

Arthur was not a sex-ed teacher. "I'm sure you've seen enough _videos._" His lips curled at the end, twisting the word into something both sensual and devious at once.

Alfred's cheeks burned red, eyes refusing to look at Arthur, but his left hand moved its way up Arthur's thighs. It curled around the base of Arthur's cock, and Alfred startled slightly when Arthur's hips jerked to meet his hand.

He stroked slowly at first, fingers touching with a timid edge, gentle in fear of error. Arthur urged Alfred on with an animalistic growl, the ecstasy of Alfred's touch blinding him to all else. Alfred grew bolder, his grip slightly stronger, more empowered.

He raised his eyes to Arthur's, leant his head in. Warm breath pulsed against Arthur's cock, and he threw his head back with a wild moan. His jaw clenched as he felt Alfred's tongue lap at the pre-cum, fisting his hands into the sheet to stop himself from entangling his fingers in Alfred's hair and forcing him down.

Alfred's lips moved along Arthur's member, spritzing it with kisses and curious licks, investigatory in its movements. He responded to Arthur's guttural noises with enthusiasm, his kisses lingering longer, his tongue coating Arthur's cock with warm saliva, sending spirals of scorching euphoria up Arthur's spine.

Arthur's hand released the sheets, his body attempting to fold at the waist. His fingers wove themselves into Alfred's mussed locks, gripping his skull. "Go on," Arthur snarled, unable to control himself.

Alfred carried out Arthur's wish, his mouth enveloping Arthur. His head bobbed up and down, clumsily at first, getting his bearings. Arthur clamped down on the urge to force more of himself into Alfred, the all encompassing warmth and wetness hammering at his determination to be patient.

He felt Alfred's cheeks hollow as he sucked, the lewd sight and obscene sound of his suckling mouth bringing him to the edge, breaking the last of his resolve.

Arthur forced Alfred's head down, keening gruffly as he felt the back of Alfred's mouth, the contraction of his throat in resistance. He pumped against the delicious friction of Alfred's mouth. Alfred gripped Arthur's thighs, struggling to move his head in pace with Arthur's thrusts, desperately repressing his compulsion to gag and rear away.

Arthur relinquished his hold on Alfred as white spasmed behind his eyes and Alfred pulled away, gasping for air. Arthur came on Alfred's heaving chest, milky white streaks smattering his skin. He felt the heat of his body uncoil pleasantly, lulling him to a comfortable and blissful state.

Arthur sat back on the bed and gave a contented stretch of his arms, raising them far above his head, which contained a gratifying buzz. He wiggled his toes happily and relaxed his muscles. An amiable smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He looked to Alfred.

Alfred's legs were folded under him, making his thighs look only more delectable. His expression was one of mild surprise, but not panic or fear. He touched a hand to one of the white smears on his chest, testing the consistency between index finger and thumb. Slowly, he raised his fingers to reddened and swollen lips, pale tongue snaking out in an instant to taste Arthur's seed.

A short pause followed, Alfred's expression calculating, weighing the taste. Again his tongue slipped from between his lips to taste, sweeping along his fingers now, clearing away the rest of the cum that covered his hand. Arthur shivered at the scene before him, screaming inwardly at himself to stop resting, for blood to rush to his cock again. He needed _more_ of Alfred, and _more_ of what he was witnessing.

A small voice answered him back, chiding that he was too self absorbed, and to take care of Alfred's desires as well. Arthur was quick to respond, on his feet in but a moment and pulled Alfred up by his arms. "Your turn," he told him.

"I, uh, n-no," Alfred stammered, staring at Arthur's hands, the hands so tightly gripping his arms. "I don't want anything. Honest."

Arthur's grip tightened, but his voice was a song-like cadence, "Now is not the time to be bashful, Alfred." He eyed the remaining white splotches upon Alfred's chest. "Truly, it is not."

"It's not like that," Alfred insisted.

Arthur wrestled with Alfred's wrists for a moment, managing to capture them both in a single hand, marveling at how slim and strangely dainty they were. His unengaged hand trailed down Alfred's chest, fingers splaying against smooth skin as they swept downwards in long, languid strokes.

His fingers hitched on the elastic band of Alfred's boxers, playfully tugging and pulling, but not quite removing them. Arthur kept Alfred still by locking eyes with him, giving him the _look_, the one that said if he so much as utters the smallest _peep_ he will ruin everything that this moment _is_, and everything that it can _be_.

Arthur cupped Alfred through the fabric of his boxers, expecting to come into contact with Alfred's own need, to hear desperate, choked noises for more. What he finds is that Alfred is limp. Not the slightest bit of arousal.

Arthur's stomach turned to ice. Had he been so wrapped up in his own wants that he missed the fact that Alfred was not at all into their exchange? No. _No_. That wasn't possible. Alfred had been whining and whimpering the entire time, he had returned Arthur's touches, his kisses, his affections.

"I'll give you five seconds to explain before I kick your useless arse out into the storm." Arthur rattled Alfred by his wrists. He could sense Alfred's reaction in the darkness, the tremble of knees, the threat to buckle under shame and fear. Arthur knew there must be something he was missing, a vital piece of information beyond his grasp.

"I had too much to drink," Alfred cried, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"I gathered that much already." Arthur's heart was not softened by Alfred's distress.

"But you don't understand," Alfred's words became more slurred in his muddled state. "I can't..."

Arthur stared hard at Alfred, watching him try to explain through blubbering words what the problem was. Arthur's eyes lost their focus, vision blurring as he mind set to work. Alfred had been drinking, quite a bit indeed, and for some reason that meant he couldn't be aroused.

It all fell into place.

"_Ah_." Arthur's hand slipped away from Alfred's wrists, setting them free. "I see."

"Yeah." Alfred anxiously rolled the flesh of his bottom lip with his teeth. "I'm sorry," he said quietly.

The embarrassment that coated the air smothered Arthur's wanton desires, reducing them to smoking embers. A certain shame crept through his veins and into his thoughts. Maybe it had been more wrong than he had previously thought to lure Alfred into slaking his desires. Arthur knew that Alfred was drunk, but from the scattered occasions on which he had gone drinking with him, booze seemed to have a fleeting effect on him. Arthur wanted to believe that Alfred was only feigning drunkeness, despite the signs indicating otherwise.

Arthur tried to recall how much alcohol it took for himself to be rendered impotent. Not that he'd had many experiences like that. A gnawing voice, shrill and unshakable screamed in his head, screamed at him for what he had done. If Alfred was so drunk he could not become excited, there was no doubt he had not the state of mind to give consent.

Arthur looked at Alfred, his eyes scrabbling for any hint of sobriety. One of Alfred's shoulders was lowered slightly, as if he were resting it. His stance was slouched and unsteady, completely without the structure of one with a functioning mind.

"What now?" Alfred had begun to rub his upper shoulders, petting himself without realising it. With every movement Arthur could see what remained of his seed on Alfred's chest. It had lost any aphrodisiacal effect on him, now only a reminder of the horror he had committed. He needed to get rid of it.

"Why don't we get you cleaned up," Arthur provided, his voice still but breathing shallow. Alfred nodded in agreement.

Arthur crouched to pick up the shirt he had so thoughtlessly pulled from Alfred earlier. He blotted at Alfred's chest with the cloth, murmuring noises that were not quite words that Alfred returned with more apologies.

When Arthur deemed Alfred's chest to be adequately clean, he disposed of the shirt by placing it in a clothes hamper. He slipped his briefs back on, exchanging not a word with him aside from noises of acknowledgment when Alfred would say his name. He straightened. Why was Alfred repeating his name?

"Alfred, what is it?" Arthur pulled on warm cotton pajamas with an argyle print.

"Did I mess up?"

"No," Arthur answered flatly, forcing emotion from his voice. _I messed up_.

Arthur worked the buttons of his shirt off, impressed by how still his hands were. It was replaced by a plain black tee without pattern or design. The flat soles of his bare feet slapped against the floor as he purposefully made his way to the bed, completely blocking out Alfred's presence.

He pulled the duvet back and slipped into bed, his head hitting the pillow with a frustrated smack. He turned on his side, his back facing Alfred. He hiked the blanket up to his ears, sending the silent yet unmistakable message that he did not wish to interact in the least. Arthur can't sully Alfred if he's not touching him, that much he is sure of.

The pounding rush of blood in Arthur's ears was louder than the rain outside, and his eyes refused to close. They stared at the wall, tense and unseeing. Arthur waited for the rustle of covers as they are lifted, for the dip of the mattress and for Alfred to scooch into bed next to him, loud and bumbling. The act never happened.

Arthur raised his head, awkwardly craning his neck until the muscles were pulled painfully taught. Alfred was standing where Arthur had left him, emitting not the smallest of noises, still poised in his ungainly and drunken style.

Alfred spoke up when he noticed Arthur watching him, "Should I sleep on the couch?"

Despite knowing it would be better for them to sleep in separate rooms, Arthur was not selfless enough to allow it. He still wanted Alfred close.

"No, just get in bed and go to sleep."

Alfred did as Arthur told him, his hands raising the covers enough so that he's able to sneak under them. Arthur returned to staring at the wall, listening to Alfred curl and shift in an attempt to make himself comfortable. He heard restrained sniffs mingled with the tossing and turning, stirring his sympathy into life. He rolled to face Alfred.

"Are you crying again?" Arthur asked.

"No," Alfred told his pillow, a hiccup following his words.

Arthur's body started to gravitate towards Alfred's, moving in small, stealthy increments, encroaching on Alfred's restless form. Alfred peeked at him, face almost entirely hidden in his pillow. His eyes are bloodshot, the thin skin beneath them an irritated red to match.

"What did I do wrong?" Alfred croaked.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. He didn't want Alfred to feel bad, he only wanted him to stay away. To have enough sense to know that Arthur had wronged him, and not the other way around. But such was Alfred, always getting things twisted around, seeing them from the wrong spectrum.

"You did nothing wrong," Arthur assured him, gingerly patting Alfred's bare back.

"Then why are you all angry and ignoring me?"

"I'm not angry."

"Okay." Alfred buried his face fully in the pillow.

"And now you're the one ignoring me," remarked Arthur.

The pillow filtered Alfred's response, reducing it to a garbled mess. Arthur closed the small distance between them, telling himself he was only moving closer so he could calm Alfred. Nothing more, nothing less. He tugged on the pillow, trying to pull it from Alfred's face, but Alfred only gripped it tighter and kicked his feet about.

"Fine, keep the pillow if it makes you feel better," Arthur relented.

Alfred shoved the pillow away from his face, his automatic reflex of doing the opposite of what he was told to kicking in. "It doesn't make me feel any better," he pouted.

"What _would_ make you feel better, Alfred?"

Alfred rolled onto his back, his skin mere inches away from Arthur. Warmth seemed to pour from his body. "You."

"Beg pardon?" Arthur cocked his head to the side.

"You would make me feel better," Alfred clarified.

"Nonsense."

"I mean it," Alfred whined. "Just, just hold me. Only this once, I promise I won't ask again."

_You can ask as many times as you'd like._ "Don't make a fuss, I'll do it, I'll do it," Arthur pretended to be disinterested as he took Alfred in his arms, the fevered body a wonderfully warm blanket pressed against his chest.

Alfred exhaled a breath of pure relief, his muscles slackening as his eyelids fluttered faintly before closing. His cheek pressed against the dark fabric of Arthur's shirt, the skin near his nose crinkling as he smiled contentedly. Arthur gave his hair a friendly ruffle, his own eyelids becoming very heavy.

"Alfred?"

"Yes?"

"Did I make you do anything you didn't want to? Tonight, I mean," Arthur quickly tacked on.

"Don't be silly, of course not." Alfred yawned loudly.

"Are you _sure_?"

"Sure as a Sunday morning."

Arthur ran Alfred's words through his head several times. "That doesn't make any sense."

"You don't make any sense," Alfred responded, his words tired mumbles.

Arthur gave up on trying to talk to Alfred. It was no use speaking to a man who was more asleep than awake.

Undeterred by physical exhaustion. Arthur's mind continued to carry on, replaying how he had taken advantage of Alfred. He mulled over the possible outcomes the morning would bring. Alfred would be upset, that much Arthur was sure of, the question was how he would display such emotions.

Probably with his fists. Maybe with a kitchen knife. Chances are he would ring Matthew up and bleed his heart out over the phone. Arthur really didn't want to find out how Matthew would react to the news. But maybe, just maybe, Alfred would be too ashamed to tell anyone. In spite of how horrible a thing it was to want, Arthur hoped that would be the case.

Alfred kicked him.

"_What_?" Arthur barked, feeling oddly uneasy that Alfred, regardless of how impossible it was, might be reading his mind.

Alfred wriggled, his face a sleeping mask. "Nothin', tripped."

Arthur rolled his eyes. The daft boy was already on the cusp of dreaming. He supposed he should be too._ I'll figure it out in the morning,_ Arthur told himself, chanting it as an inward mantra to keep him mind from firing off into more disastrous predictions. When sleep finally claimed him, it held only a deep and dreamless void.

_A/N:_

_First off, I want to mention that this chapter gave me a lot of grammatical problems, specifically tenses. I made two more corrections while flicking through it really quick, but I am sure there are countless more mistakes. Please, pleeaaase, if you see a mistake, tell me and I will fix it as soon as I can! Also, I will love you forever in exchange._

_Secondly, i have never written any kind of sex-type scene before, and I did totally rush it just to sneak back into my comfort zone, and I apologize for that. Of course I could give you a bunch of excuses, but that wouldn't get us anywhere._

_Thirdly. . . thanks for hanging in so long! I hope this chapter wasn't too depressing, and I can assure you that the next (and final) chapter, while not composed of sprinkles and kittens, is happier._


	6. Chapter 6

Arthur's consciousness slowly bubbled, his sleep-dusted eyes opening to find a dimly lit room. Half his body felt as if it were pinned by sandbags, the weight causing his lower limbs to numb. He blearily blinked his eyes and decided he was momentarily trapped between sleep and wakefulness, resigning himself to simply relax and enjoy the ride.

After he allowed his mind a few moments to warm up and begin its regular functions, he attempted to sit up. The weight continued to hold him down. Arthur paused, an inkling of panic beginning to stir. Toes were wiggled as he checked to make sure that there was nothing wrong with his nerves. They responded.

His mind shot back to the previous night, cobbling together bits and pieces of memory until they formed a portrait. He had been minding his own business, ready to go to sleep, and the phone had rung. Arthur groaned loudly as it all came back to him.

How he had gone to pick up the wasted Alfred, taken him home only to discover he was an overly-affectionate and rather sick oaf of a man. Alfred's breath as it flicked along his neck, the overtly enticing actions he had put into play when he wanted the last beer in the fridge.

But worst of all, how Arthur had taken advantage of all that. He had realised, or accepted, Arthur was mortified to find he was unsure of which it had been, that Alfred had drank to the point where he had no control over his own decisions. And Arthur had used that for his own desires, with complete disregard for how Alfred may have felt.

He raised his head from the pillow as best he could, chancing a glance at his chest. There Alfred lay, still fast asleep, his face serene and unworried. Arthur moved his hand to give Alfred's hair a quick pat, but his hand refused to touch him.

It hovered above Alfred's head, trembling slightly. Arthur pursed his lips, drawing them into a thin line. What right had he to touch Alfred after last night? He'd already done as he pleased while the other was terribly inebriated, to dare to touch him while he was vulnerable with sleep would only add to his wrongdoings.

_But he wanted me to hold him_, Arthur reminded himself. Alfred had still wanted his affections, had specifically asked for Arthur to hold him. His hand relented, lowering itself to warily run over Alfred's hair. Arthur wondered if this would be the last time he would touch Alfred. Surely the moment Alfred had awoken and recalled the night before, he would refuse any type of physical contact that did not involve kissing with the use of one's fist.

Urged on by what was to come, Arthur continued to pet Alfred, unabashed now in fondness. He snaked his fingers through the tresses, winding the tips of Alfred's hair around his fingers, allowing them to slip away and become fleeting curls that bounced once before returning to frayed waves. It saddened Arthur that he hadn't been able to touch Alfred in such a tender way in over two hundred years, and that it was very unlikely the event would happen again for another few centuries.

Arthur shook his head. _No, I'll be lucky if he even speaks to me in the next half-century._

Cautiously, Arthur trailed his hands along Alfred's bare back, noticing how tepid Alfred's bare skin felt against his palms, his fever having broken when he slept. When Arthur's hands brushed along the elastic band of Alfred's boxers, he quickly drew them back to the base of Alfred's neck. He hardly trusted himself not to begin fondling the other.

Arthur sunk his head back down and looked to his alarm clock, which blinked on and off, the bold red numbers proposing that it was eight am. The power must have gone out during the storm. He looked to the window in a vain attempt to judge from the light filtering through the drapes, but the thick and woven fibers blocked out the majority of sunlight.

He hadn't checked the clock since before he had left to haul Alfred home, but Arthur assumed it must have been early afternoon, judging from the lack of morning birdsong. It wouldn't be long before Alfred rose as well, and the day of reckoning would begin.

Arthur debated over what the appropriate reaction would be to Alfred's accusations. He could deny it rather blatantly, point out the several times throughout the night that Alfred had tried to come on to him, and that it was really _Alfred's_ fault.

But that was wrong. Beyond wrong. Alfred had been asking for sweet, pure affections. He had a desire for others to love him, as did most. Arthur had taken that need and abused it beyond a point that could be forgiven. Arthur refused to play the blame game, and moved on to his next option.

It would, in theory, be best to admit his crime, and to then accept what punishment he was given. In practice, to boldly admit that his actions had been abhorrent and offensive to human nature would seem almost... pompous. Arthur knew that with his manner of speaking, one that did not carry humility well, he would have to risk sounding almost proud of what he had done.

Sheets rustled as Alfred began to move, Arthur's body turned to a slab of petrified stone as it happened. More rustling of covers, the whiney yawn of a man who does not want to wake, and then Alfred looked up; straight into Arthur's face.

He squinted at first, pulling the back of a hand over his eyes to help clear them. He groped at his face for a moment, feeling for the familiar wire frames of his glasses. Arthur waited for his mind to piece together the fragmented and drunken memories of last night, waited for the anger to play across his features.

Alfred shot Arthur an accusatory glare, the threatening effect somewhat hampered by his pouchy cheeks and incorrigible case of bed-head. "Where are my glasses?"

"They fell during the night, they're on the floor somewhere," Arthur responded in the most subdued voice his could muster, his heart bucking in his chest.

"Okay." Alfred took Arthur's words at face value and disentangled himself from both the sheets and Arthur's body.

He dropped to his hands and knees, hands scanning the panels of the floor like a metal detector. Soon he had found his glasses, hiding in the clear, but still too difficult for Alfred to find without the use of touch. After affixing them to their regular position, Alfred stood and gave himself a pat down. Arthur was beyond puzzled.

"What are you doing?"

"Checking for bruises, broken bones, all the _fun stuff_," Alfred said through another yawn.

Arthur decided not to press further. He was still waiting for the confrontation.

"Pants, pants, pants," Alfred said to himself, "Always floating away in the night."

Arthur stared dumbly at Alfred. Was he going to pretend last night hadn't happened? Arthur supposed it was the easiest option one could think of in such a short amount of time. To simply repress the incident, to shove it into the damp and dodgy recesses that occupied the back of one's mind was viable. For a period of time, at least.

A tinny noise floated through the air. It sounded like someone playing the piano, but as if the noise were being compressed, forced out of a space that was too small to contain it. While the notes were strung together in a familiar tune, the name of the song refused to leave the tip of Arthur's tongue, much to his frustration.

Alfred perked up and looked to the doorway. He padded over to the bed and shoved the duvet back, pulling the topsheet from the bed in a single yank. Before Arthur could protest that he was making a mess of things, Alfred was wrapping the light linen sheet around his waist, creating a makeshift sarong to cover his bare legs. He walked towards the door, the sheet pooling on the floor, creating a wake of red as he went.

"What's that noise?" Arthur asked.

"Matthew." And Alfred was gone, the sheet sneaking around the corner with him.

Arthur rolled his eyes as the name of the song formed in his mind. _Maple Leaf Rag_. Alfred was always such an oddball.

Relieved of Alfred's weight, Arthur climbed out of bed and straightened out the blankets as best he could, deciding there were more important things at hand than a well-made bed.

He pulled the drapes away from the window before turning to look the room over. It looked the same as it always had. There was no poisonous mist fogging the air, no blaring signs that an atrocity had been committed. Simply a tidy, if not stark, room.

Arthur tugged at his ear. It would be best if he gave the room a thorough search. Not that he would find anything, there would be no accusatory notes left by mystery people claiming to know what he had done, no evidence of what had transpired. But the act felt necessary. Now he needed to figure out where to start.

He tapped his foot nervously as he scanned the room again. Maybe he should do a search of the entire house, backtrack Alfred's steps to make sure absolutely nothing was missed. Without a second to waste Arthur was out the door, walking lightly along the chilled wooden floors of the house.

Being as logical as one could be in his situation, Arthur set a route straight for the door. Striding along with a falsely confident air, Arthur was struck by the sound of words. Low, almost whispered. _Conspiratorial_.

Arthur rocked back on his heels as his error became obvious. He had left Alfred alone, with a phone, with Matthew on the other line. In all likelihood, he was probably recounting his harrowing evening to the other, having only pretended to have suffered a blackout until he was no longer within earshot of Arthur.

Cold sweat beaded on Arthur's forehead as he sprinted silently on the balls of his feet to the bathroom, determined he would catch Alfred blubbering away to Matthew.

"It feels like there's a Highschool garage band playing in my skull, I swear─" Alfred caught Arthur's riled expression in the mirror and turned, his face stricken with surprise. "─A really_ talented_ garage band. One that specializes in smooth jazz and ambient tunes," he went on, fumbling his words as they left his lips.

Arthur's expression contorted into one of confusion. Why was Alfred whispering about garage bands and having them located in his head? The silence that followed Alfred's comment was so hollow Arthur could hear Matthew's response.

"Ask Arthur if he has any aspirin around."

Alfred nodded at the phone, but kept his eyes on Arthur. They were scanning Arthur's face, concocting words in a mad rush. He spun away and spoke into the phone, "Why would I need any of that? Here I am, talking about music, and you're talking about aspirin. Sometimes I don't know what to do with you." He quickly snapped his phone shut with a mumbled promise to call Matthew back before setting it beside the edge of the sink.

Arthur raised an inquisitive eyebrow, thrown out of his element for the time being. Alfred ignored it and tugged his pants from the shower rod, the jeans having taken on a stiff and unyielding quality that he attempted to shake from them.

"Why don't I throw those in the wash for you?"

"But I need pants."

"I'll find something for you to wear."

"Hm, guess I can't argue with that." Alfred shrugged in what appeared to be a thankful gesture, if such a shrug were possible, and handed his jeans off to Arthur.

"After you," Arthur smiled sweetly, hanging the jeans over his arm and skirting around Alfred to urge him out. He palmed the phone once he was completely behind Alfred.

"Where to?" Alfred questioned as he plodded along ahead of Arthur.

"Guest room."

Alfred did not pick up his pace. Instead he hesitated in his steps, waiting for Arthur to move ahead of him before following. Arthur chalked the action up to Alfred's little act, pretending as if he could not remember ever having visited such a room.

Neither spoke as Arthur entered the guest room, Alfred taking up residence in the doorframe. Arthur set the jeans down on a sealed box, hiding the phone beneath them so that Alfred would not notice it. He went to the box in which he had found the shirt from the previous night, quickly managing to pull a nightshirt made from a faded floral print. Alfred would have to make due.

Arthur gathered the jeans and phone back into his arms along with the nightshirt. He held it out to Alfred with a face that said beggars can't be choosers. Alfred took it without a word and pulled it over his head, slipping the sheet from his waist and stepping out of it.

"You can leave that there," Arthur said, breezing past him. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"Sure."

Arthur chewed on his lower lip as he made his way to the kitchen. He hadn't given any thought to what he would do if Alfred refused to acknowledge the night before. Maybe it was his way of saying that he understood it had been a moment of weakness on Arthur's behalf, and was willing to forgive. Lord knew the boy couldn't articulate such a concept into words.

He gave the kitchen counter a quick pat with his hand to indicate for Alfred to sit. After convincing himself Alfred would not disappear if he were to be left alone for a moment, Arthur took the jeans to the small alcove that held the washer and dryer, throwing them in and turning the machine on. He stared at the phone he was left with.

The phone glinted as he rolled it from hand to hand, evaluating his options. If he discarded it, it would lessen Alfred's chance of reaching out to Matthew. However, if he was determined enough he could still use the home phone. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head violently. Trying to silence Alfred was selfish and immoral; it would only exacerbate the situation exponentially.

He went back to the kitchen and squarely placed the phone before Alfred, who looked up at him with disconcerted eyes. He was trembling slightly, back curving into a noticeable hunch. Alfred looked so small and unsettled that it burned Arthur's throat, his arms twitching with the need to wrap around Alfred and tell him about how everything was alright.

But nothing was alright. Things were beyond repair, both of them in varying states of denial, and neither with a clue of what to do.

Arthur turned away and grabbed a stepping stool, positioning it under the smoke alarm so that he could remove the batteries before starting on their first meal of the day. He did his best to ignore the small electronic noises that sounded as Alfred dialed his phone, each beep causing him to feel as though a noose were being tightened around his throat.

"Hello?" Alfred asked the phone.

A small voice answered him.

"I call you and all you want to do is talk to _him_? Harsh, bro." Alfred laughed and stood, approaching Arthur with the phone held out. "The bell tolls for thee."

Arthur shuddered at Alfred's choice of words, but took the phone from him, cupping it to his cheek. "Arthur speaking."

"Hey Arthur, it's me," Matthew said. "Do you think you could take this call into another room, or at least away from Alfred?"

"Of course." Arthur made his way out of the room with an uneasy wooden step, keeping Alfred in his sight the entire time.

"So how was he?"

"H-How was he? What kind of a question is that?" Arthur paled and flushed all at once, did Matthew already know what had happened?

"A normal question, I guess. He wasn't too much for you to handle or anything, right? When he's drunk he can kind of be all over the place, but I figured if anyone could handle him it'd be you."

"Mm, yes." Arthur's heart fluttered. False alarm.

"Great, I knew I could trust you."

"That's me." Arthur laughed weakly, watching Alfred tug at the hem of his nightshirt. "Matthew?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you send him here without any spare clothes?"

The line went silent for long enough that Arthur began to think the connection may have broken. Matthew's voice started up again.

"I thought he had some there."

"He doesn't."

"My mistake," Matthew mumbled softly. "It's just that with the way he talks about you, I assumed he'd have a change or two there."

Arthur's horror, and interest, were equally piqued. "How does he talk about me?"

"Oh, you know," Matthew said vaguely.

"I don't. Enlighten me."

The line again lapsed into silence, but one much more shallow. Arthur could hear a hem, a haw, an internal debate being waged in Matthew's mind.

"I think I've said enough. Too much, actually. Anyway, I simply wanted to make sure things went alright. Can you put me back on the line with Alfred?"

Arthur observed Alfred as he pulled his knees up, covering them with the nightshirt, stretching the fabric. He had not the heart to chide him for it. "Sure."

Arthur passed the phone off to Alfred as he slipped back into the kitchen, setting his eyes on the fridge and ignoring the questioning noise from Alfred, trusting he could figure out what to do next. He was not let down.

"Finish your parent-teacher conference?" Alfred said playfully into the mouth piece.

Arthur began to pry open the lids of plastic tupperware containers in his search of something that Alfred could eat without getting sick. Half of food looked like pig's slop, the other half like foreign delicacies no one really ever ate, not matter how good they claimed it to be.

His mind drifted from food to the one side of the brotherly conversation he could hear.

"What did we do last night? Well, uh, not much."

Arthur straightened and looked over his shoulder. Alfred was looking directly at him, expression unsure of if he had given the correct response. Arthur gave a jerk of his head in approval; he wouldn't dispute it. Alfred smiled back, the glimmer of his teeth clenching Arthur's heart. He turned back to the counter and squeezed his eyes shut. Playing make-believe was much more difficult than he thought it would be.

A carton of eggs caught Arthur's attention. Sunny side up eggs were simple and quick, add in a side of toast and one would have a classic breakfast. He quickly cranked the stove top to life and set a skillet over the flame, adding a pat of butter for good measure.

Arthur watched with disinterest as the butter began to melt, forming a sizzling pool that popped and spit at him. He cracked two eggs and tossed the shells in the sink, staring glumly as he saw one of the yolks bleed into the white. Scrambled eggs it was.

He popped the bread in the toaster and returned to the eggs, whisking them about as best he could with a spatula, folding them at odd intervals. His vision was glazed and inattentive, ears still listening to Alfred's voice.

"So where are you?" Alfred asked casually. His eyes widened at Matthew's response, but his voice quickly recovered as he spoke, "Right. You're in Canada, of course. I meant it as more of a 'where are you in Canada?' kind of question."

The eggs turned an unappealing grey color as Arthur shoveled them onto a plate, the toast popping up burnt. Another culinary failure. He set the food and basic silverware on the table before Alfred and took a seat at the opposite end, not a pang of hunger biting at his own stomach. His arms folded on the table as he leaned forward to see what Alfred would think of the dish.

Alfred speared the eggs onto the burnt toast and took a bite, speaking around the food as he continued talking to his brother. He didn't choke, gasp, pretend to heave, or make any noises resembling a wretch. Arthur was left in a state of near-awe at how willingly Alfred gobbled up the food, too thrilled to remind him how inappropriate it was to speak with his full mouth.

After a handful of minutes, the plate was cleared, save for a coat of crumbles. Arthur raised a hand to rub at his mouth, obscuring the genuine smile that was battling for supremacy. It was a step in the right direction, feeding Alfred. Arthur was proving that he _did_ care about the other's well being, taking the time to make sure his body was nourished.

Arthur idly traced his finger over the damask pattern of the tablecloth as Alfred chatted away with Matthew. His words pertaining to the night before were unspecific, lacking in any sort of detail. If he did remember the night before, he was putting on a most convincing front.

Alfred's conversing came to a halt, gaze becoming fixed on Arthur. "Mother Hen wants to talk to you again." He slid the phone across the table.

Arthur held the phone to his ear. "Yes?"

"Mind stepping out one last time?"

"Not at all," Arthur replied easily, returning to the living room where he could carefully watch Alfred.

"Alfred's flight doesn't leave until next week, I need you to keep him until then."

Arthur had no words to respond to Matthew with. He wasn't going to keep Alfred, he _couldn't_ keep Alfred. It wouldn't be safe to do as such, and there were other, better options available. If Alfred had to stay around, Arthur would set him up with a nice little bed and breakfast inn, where his every need would be seen to. Not cooped up with a man that would manipulate him.

"Arthur, you know I'm not one to impose, but you have to let Alfred stay with you."

"I'm required to do no such thing," Arthur snapped back.

"Please?"

"No. Never. Why can't he stay with one of his friends? I'm sure he's got loads of mates he can shack up with on short notice."

"Name them."

"There's you, for starters."

"And am _I_ in England at the moment?" Matthew's voice was strained with frustration.

"No, but that's not the point─"

"That's _exactly_ the point. Who else is he going to stay with? And don't say a hotel, he'll wander off, get wasted, and end up in a storm drain."

Arthur's thumbnail made its way to his mouth, teeth nibbling away. "Last night wasn't a one time thing?"

"No," Matthew admitted sadly.

"Matthew, if you want me to look after Alfred, you're going to have to explain the situation to me."

The line crackled as Matthew breathed a sigh into the phone, a distorted noise sounding at he switched the phone to his other ear. "Fine."

Arthur walked to the linen closet as he waited for Matthew to pick his words. Since Alfred would be staying with him, he may as well set up a bed on the couch. As he carried fresh linens to the couch and began to create a makeshift bed, he wondered which of them would be sleeping on it.

"Before I forget, give Alfred some aspirin when you can, his head is killing him," Matthew mumbled.

"Why can't he ask for it himself?" Arthur snapped the topsheet into a smoothed plane and proceeded to tuck the excess into the cushions.

"Because he's paranoid about looking weak, or sick, any of that stuff."

"I'll give him some once you tell me what's going on."

"I'm getting there," Matthew whined under his breath. "Promise not to tell Alfred any of this."

"I won't tell him."

"Alfred likes to get drunk, real drunk. As I'm sure you noticed, it makes him pretty lovey-dovey."

"And he knows this, of course," Arthur added.

"That I am not so sure of. Whenever we drink, we don't exactly talk about it in the morning. I don't know if he blacks out or what but─"

"Why not keep him from drinking?"

"It's not that easy," Matthew snorted. "Alfred _gets_ what Alfred _wants_, and if he wants to get smashed, he's going to go all out."

Arthur could understand that line of reasoning, it was too solid to argue against. He shifted to a previous, but related, subject. "Never mind all that. What is it that he says about me?"

"Telling you about that wasn't part of our deal," Matthew groaned.

Arthur didn't give Matthew a vocal argument. If he failed to respond long enough, he knew Matthew would panic and fear that Alfred would be set free to roam the streets and drink as much as he pleased without a guardian. He counted the seconds as they went by, staring openly at Alfred as time passed. It only took ten seconds for Matthew to crack.

"He acts like you two are best friends," Matthew confessed.

"He does _what_?" Arthur's voice was disbelieving.

"It sounds ridiculous, I know. I always figured he was lying. If he has enough to drink he tells anyone who'll listen about how famously you two get along, about the domestic adventures you have. Before I called you last night, he was saying that you and him have movie nights at least once a week."

Arthur was baffled, and only too willing to hear more. "What else does he say?"

"If we're drinking at home he points to things and says they're gifts from you. He'll say a throw rug or set of coasters is from you. He'll pull the shirt from his back and happily inform me that you gave it to him. But it's _not_ from you, and it's─" Matthew's voice cracked as he began to cry, "And it's stupid. All of it, this is all so stupid and _I don't want to deal with it anymore_."

Arthur was stunned by Matthew's emotional outburst. He hadn't the faintest clue Alfred was claiming such things. "Don't cry, Matthew. I'll hold things down here, keep an eye on Alfred. You go do something nice for yourself. Like, like play hockey, or speak French. Those are kind of your 'things', right?"

"Right," Matthew sniffled.

"Would you like me to put you back on with Alfred?" Arthur questioned gently.

"Yes, please."

Arthur hurried to pass the phone off to Alfred, who was sitting with his head in his hands, hangover refusing to fade. He shoved it at him as if they were participating in a relay race, turning back to the living room to give the brothers time alone.

He drifted about aimlessly, straightening hanging art that was perfectly level, running fingers over recently dusted pieces of furniture. Arthur paused at the thermostat, recalling how Alfred had been shivering earlier. The house did seem a bit chilled, not by much, but enough to cause a man without pants to shake. Arthur cranked it to seventy and smiled to himself. That would stop Alfred from trembling.

He returned to the kitchen, unable to keep himself from hovering around Alfred, listening to the friendly jabs that were exchanged. To avoid suspicion, Arthur took Alfred's plate and ran it under a jet of tepid water. His hands moved in the practiced motions of cleaning as his mind became clouded.

Arthur could not say with any certainty exactly how to react to what Matthew had told him. Alfred hardly struck him as a heavy drinker, and to think that he would begin to brag about a nonexistent relationship with Arthur, no matter how intoxicated he happened to be, was pure lunacy. Matthew must have been exaggerating.

Matthew always had been the more neurotic of his North American colonies. Quiet, reserved, empathetic to boot, but to a point where every occurrence in the world led back to him. With his exorbitant amount of sensitivity, he took every problem on with the intention of solving it. When he couldn't, it would invariably lead to endless tears.

His newest project must have been Alfred, trying to fix every fault he found in his brother. With his inability to be brutally honest, Matthew had probably gone about his 'helping' with such thoughtful chosen words Alfred took them more as compliments. Matthew must have been coming to the understanding that Alfred couldn't be fixed. Arthur furrowed his brow. If it was possible to fix Alfred, he would have found a way long ago.

Alfred's words interrupted Arthur's increasingly bitter thoughts, "I'll talk to you later, little man."

Arthur dried his hands on a worn tea towel, using the action to mask a flicker of bemusement. Matthew, while not by much, was the taller of the siblings.

Alfred laughed at Matthew's unheard response. "We don't know for sure which one of us is older, and until then I'm going to assume it's you. Now go do your Canadian thing." He turned the phone off, and his lips formed fleeting, unspoken words. Arthur thought it looked like 'olive juice', but that would be bizarre, even for Alfred.

"What makes you think you're the 'big brother'?" Arthur questioned.

"Easy enough to figure out. See, I have a theory," he began to explain. "The first child is always a kind of experiment."

"I'm not sure I want to know anymore." Arthur worried the theory might be something more suited for a science fiction movie.

"Too bad. Anyway, the first kid is the one you test. With all different kinds of parenting methods, seeing what works and what doesn't. In return for the all the mistakes that kid has to put up with─"

"This is ridiculous," Arthur cut in. Alfred was never a child-rearing test subject to him.

"C'mon, hear me out. Since the first kid gets all kinds of things tested on him, he doesn't turn out all that great. He's the one who makes all the mistakes and gets in trouble. That way, when the second child comes along the parents know what to do. Not to mention the second kid will be so horrified by their older sibling, they'll do everything within their power to end up the total opposite."

"What are you trying to say?"

"That the first child is the bad one, and the second is the good one."

Arthur grimaced at Alfred's blunt conclusion. Did he really think of himself as the one who was expected to be a handful, to be the one that was always a harbinger of bad things to come? Perhaps he felt the need to be the one to make mistakes, that way Matthew could learn from them beforehand, see what would become of him if he were to trod the more dangerous of paths. Either way, Alfred's reasoning was unsound and bordering on pitiable.

Arthur didn't wish to dwell on such twisted ideas. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get you a little something for your headache." He pushed himself from the table and opened one of the cupboards, fishing a small bottle from it.

He opened it and poured a few small white pills onto his hand. Alfred whistled a loud, screeching tune, merely making noise in the silence. Arthur stood, staring at the pills in his hand, but not quite seeing them, instead picturing Alfred's bubbly smile and matching laugh in his head. He turned back to Alfred.

He looked nothing like Arthur's mental projection. His eyes were blank and unexpressive, lips settled in somber line, no longer whistling. Arthur filled a glass with water and handed it to the waiting Alfred. Arthur was sure he was only imaging that Alfred looked worn down. He was, after all, Alfred.

The person who always had a smile to spare, the one who could take no offense to disparaging remarks. A being without problems. Arthur watched Alfred knock back the pills and down the glass. His little Alfred, nursing a hangover.

When had Alfred even begun to drink more than a pint or two of beer? Last night had to be a one time thing, regardless of what Matthew said. Alfred simply wasn't capable of such vices. He was a little bumpkin, free of worry and responsibility, and he certainly didn't make up drunken stories about what fine pals he and Arthur were.

"Are you done staring?" Alfred interrupted.

"Er, right." Arthur was unaware that he had been staring. His thoughts overtook his tongue, "Are you okay?"

Alfred looked taken aback by the inquiry. "Yeah, of course I am. I always am."

Arthur brushed the back of his hand across Alfred's forehead, noting that the fever had not slinked back. "Are you being honest?"

Alfred's cheeks reddened, lower lip jutting out in a childish pout. He was ruffled. "Stop being a weirdo."

"You should probably go back to bed." Arthur gently tugged Alfred to his feet and led him to the living room, motioning at the couch.

As he watched Alfred solemnly make his way to the couch, sitting down without a hint of pizazz, Arthur could no longer deny that something was indeed wrong with Alfred. He was, without doubt, a lonely boy. No friends beyond Matthew, only a sea of acquaintances he could not turn to in times of need. If only he hadn't grown up so quickly, been so hasty to cut his ties with Arthur for freedom.

He wouldn't be sitting there if he had, worn out from illicit activities he may or may not have remembered. It was impossible for him to be unaware of his behavior while drunk, regardless of his memory. Alfred had set himself to live a self-fulfilling prophecy of failure and destruction, no matter how well the United States as a nation was doing itself.

Arthur had never wanted his little colony back more in his entire life, and silently promised to prove himself worthy of Matthew's misplaced trust, to repent for what he had done to Alfred, and most of all, to help Alfred. He took a seat next to Alfred and readied his words.

"Alfred,"

"What?" Alfred peered around the room for the TV remote.

Arthur sat perfectly still, horror dawning on him as his thoughts would not translate into sound. "It's going to be okay," he said dumbly.

Alfred stopped looking around the room, his upper body twisting to face Arthur. "Everything is okay. Stop getting so worked up─"

"No." Arthur flung his arms around Alfred, forcing the other's head against his chest, hastily stroking his hair, the act more nerve wracking than comforting. "I am going to get worked up, and so should you."

Arthur was done with Alfred pretending things were hunky dory. He wanted to see Alfred express emotion beyond a forced happiness, to let his guard down and cry without the aid of alcohol. If confrontation was the quickest way to tears, Arthur was going to wield it as if it were a blade.

"Do you have any idea what kind of things you'll do when you're drunk, the things that you say?" Arthur whispered harshly, angry with both Alfred and himself.

"Mind coming down from your ivory tower?" Alfred struggled against Arthur's hold. "You're not exactly a model citizen when you've had a bit to drink."

"I'm not as bad as you, not by a long shot. If you want affection, tell someone. Don't drink and drink until you can't hold yourself together and blindly latch onto anyone that'll hold you close." Alfred shuddered in Arthur's arms at his piercing words, clearly unhappy that the topic had been brought up.

"Why do we have to talk about this?" Alfred stopped moving in Arthur's arms, voice tapering off into a sigh.

"How much do you remember in the morning, after you've been drinking?" Matthew might not have had the nerve to ask, but the question was immeasurably more important to Arthur.

Alfred didn't answer. Tears leaked from his eyes, soft sobs filling the room. He clutched at Arthur with frantic fingers as his crying strengthened. Arthur cooed loving words that felt foreign, but not wrong, to his tongue. His hands trailed from Alfred's hair, settling on his back, stroking rhythmically to the rise of fall of Alfred's chest.

He pondered the meaning of the tears. They were not a definitive answer, purely a physical manifestation of distress. Was Alfred crying because he could remember, or because he was unable to, and too embarrassed to admit it? There was no way to pry further without Alfred becoming suspicious, on the off-chance that he truly had no recollection of the night before.

After several minutes, Alfred had calmed to a point where the only noise he emitted was the occasional shuddering breath. Arthur removed his arms from Alfred and stood, the other reaching out to hold his hand as he did so.

"Now, now," Arthur soothed, giving Alfred's hand a pat. "You needn't worry about where your love and attention will come from anymore."

Alfred weaseled his way under the covers, still holding onto Arthur's hand as he did so. "Can I get that in writing?"

"Whatever your heart desires," Arthur assured, kneeling to tuck the sheets up to Alfred's chin. "While I'm gone, get a bit more shuteye. And I don't want to come back to an empty house, alright?"

"Where are you going?"

Arthur used his free hand to brush Alfred's untamed hair away from his face, savoring the sensation as the individual strands flicked across his skin. Where was he going? The grocery store, first off. He'd buy all the sweets in the store, every last package of biscuits. Anything he thought would give Alfred the slightest bit of joy.

He'd buy Alfred throw rugs and coasters, certainly clothes as well. Everything Alfred had bragged of, Arthur would make a reality. Each purchase Arthur made, each smile his gifts brought to Alfred's face, would help mend the gap between them.

Alfred squirmed restlessly under the covers. "I won't let you leave without answering me," he said, drawing Arthur's attention back.

"Out," was Arthur's only response. He didn't want to spoil the surprise.

Alfred eyed him, an unusually needy look in his eye. "I-I think I feel my fever coming back."

Arthur rested his palm on Alfred's forehead. It felt no warmer than that morning. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. You should probably stay."

Arthur readied himself to chastise him for malingering in his sickness when he was struck by Alfred's words. Of course the sickly man knew he had no fever, he'd never admit it so openly if he did. And that look in his big blue eyes, pleading for Arthur keep him company.

Arthur cursed himself, seeing his own inability to clearly state what he wanted playing out before him. That boy was a knack for picking up all his bad habits.

Arthur looked down at himself, still clad in pajamas. Not exactly clothes that were welcomed at the stores he planned to visit. He cast a glance at Alfred, whose feet were squirming anxiously beneath the covers. He didn't care about what Arthur was wearing, if he had taken a shower yet, or that he looked like a knackered old man. He simply wanted Arthur not to leave.

Arthur was more than happy to oblige.

Without speaking, Arthur moved to the corner of the room where the plush red chair he always sat in while embroidered lay. It had many pleasant memories connected to it, from embroidering Alfred's name on his bloomers, to telling fantastic tales while Alfred was perched in his lap. Arthur wanted to add more warm memories to the collection the chair already held.

He dragged it across the floor, placing it beside the couch. Alfred's feet continued to kick, but now with a jovial sort of excitement. Arthur settled back in the chair, his pajamas wrinkling and he moved about. He snuck a hand over the armrest, and Alfred was quick to grasp it in his own.

Arthur pulled Alfred's hand up and pressed a caring kiss to the back of it, smiling against the skin as he heard Alfred laugh softly. He lowered Alfred's hand, but kept it clasped in his own, thoughtlessly squeezing it again and again, as if mimicking a slow and steady heartbeat.

"Are things really going to be alright?" Alfred asked, his eyes fixated on Arthur's face.

Arthur gave a solitary nod before turning his head to meet Alfred's gaze, their hands still joined. "Yes, Alfred. Everything is going to be alright. I promise."

_The End_

A/N:

Little birds were hired to fly by with a banner that said "Fin" but they took the money and flew the coop.

I think I'll set up a Q&A styled format for this week's notes.

Q: Olive juice?

A: 'Olive Juice' has the same lip movements that 'I love you' does. Alfred was saying the latter.

Q: Whatever happened to Alfred's original shirt, the one that turned him into a headless beast as he tried to get out of it?

Hounds carried it away in the night to clothe their babies.

Q: Bloomers weren't widely used when Alfred would have been a wee ickle colony, so Arthur wouldn't have stitched anything into them.

A: :(

Q: I like that top you're wearing.

A: _How did you get my number that is not even a question_

Q: Is there anything you wanted to fit in to the story, but ended up having to cut it?

A: I wanted to Alfred to say he had swine and bird flu, thus acquiring the super sickness 'flying pig flu', but I never got a chance to put that dialogue in. I also wanted to make a joke about Arthur going to Tesco's in his pajamas.

Q: That ending was_ balls._

A: I KNOW. I don't like to write without an ending in mind, and so originally I had a decent ending. However, after adding smut I had to change the ending up and couldn't really get it to work right.

Q: Does Alfred remember what Arthur did to him the night before or not?

A: I left that unresolved on purpose. You, the reader, are supposed to come up with your own conclusion regarding that.

Q: Now what?

A: Go brush your teeth and make you bed.


End file.
